Jess (2)

July 30, 2007

Not sure if this piece is going to work. It’s meant to be another monologue, this time, a modern da reworking of the ressurection story-with Jesus as a spurned woman. It’s only the second draft, but it definately needs something more if it’s going to worth it. I
was half thinking interspersing with sections of the bible – but that seems a bit too Lizzie Heyrick- must be another way round it. I do, of course, stand to receive accusations of blasphamy. The ending is also, I think a bit glib.

If anyone has time to look at this and give constructive crit, it would be appreciated….

The day he left I stayed in bed for 2 whole days.
For the first 4 hours – I did not move.
I stayed on my side beneath the duvet
and listened to the thud as the door to the flat
banged repeatedly, against itself – that day,
it was unseasonably breezy for summer.

I slept for a couple of hours-
and the wood on the latch was a lullaby…
but when I woke it was dark
and the thumping was loud
and I thought that he might have returned –
but he hadn’t. And I think I must have cried

for hours…but I really can’t remember
how long it went on; it was cold,
my skin was hot, my face was wet,
I could not breathe for the mucus in my throat,
and my bed – had stuck to my skin
like a death shroud. Of course,

I did not sleep that night.
I watched the light from late day grey
to midnight black, I hugged a sack
like pillow – and recalled how I thought it a cleche.
And on the morning of the second day-
I wondered if I’d been forsaken.

I think it was around about then that I gave him up.
I remember the moment: it was like-
a wish bone crushed, a synapse cracked,
a fine skin of bright white milk
split like blood – Trust, is a fragile thing
and that was the moment that I think I stopped.

I stopped waiting. I got up – wiped the
dry black stains beneath my eyes
on wads of snowy cloth. I made myself a cup
of tea – read a little in my head
soothed my mind with the T.V guide,
distraction like a salve, for love and

all day I tidied up. I filed away his things,
His books of words, his clothes his
frames of images. I took them in my arms
and calmly let them drift – that night
I slept like one who’d never slept before
I slept right through to a Sunday morning

sun filled room of new light –
and as I opened up my eyes
sunlight streaming through the blinds
I remember thinking – this
is what it means to be reborn.
I wasn’t expecting the knock at the door.

A sudden gust of wind
that seemed to cause the door to break its back –
proved in fact to be my love –
standing in the hallway like a hero –
returning from a war
and expecting to be thanked.

He seemed surprised
when I told him to pack. Even now,
I can remember his chest –
bunched like a sackful of apples
heaving impatient and seething with
frost – Love,

I said, it should not hurt-
and it’s not about sacrifice
and it’s not about loss.
I’ve never liked tests.
and I’ve never liked bluff
and I really,
I told him believed –
that what fails to kill you
can only make you strong.

When he finally left,
I broke my fast on a plate of bread
and a cup of wine.
I’ve never liked sardines.

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