Prose Poem
The Arrival
Of The Guest House Proprietress’ Sequential Amoretto
1
A car passed wide open gateposts, over gravel, a sound like
steam gushing
from a water drop. Swoop of firs, a parking square, calls of
seven different
birds, answered by its mate. With a clunk Mr. Bellini took
crisp air, light-
headed. Newness of senses tingles, slow movement. He looked at
bright
sun light, greenery, the entrance to the big house.
2
She floated up stairs, pollen, silent soft slippers, past
cracked veins, oil
paintings. Wood furred dust, more animal than her
sable-brushed fox, the
wonky lion, top-hatted tamer, apple-red cheeks. At top level
she slowed, shy
of her ability to float. Rattling a key to room five between
artless fingers she
trod edges, worn rugs, an ordinary mortal.
3
Was it the corner seat that creaked air where its second arm
would be?
Weight of sun ageing tapestried cloth? Or was it that chair, a
cushioned half-
moon back, shifting its springs to take each mood of its
braid? Unsettled
today. The landing smelled as it always smelled, fried
breakfasts, morning
damp, when musky lovers rose to close the bathroom door;
unfamiliar bodies
gently submerging, slick of swirling soap.
