Countries Lodge inside the Body

A Speckled Riverstone

Nina writes to Sol

Tongue-and-groove floorboards
native timber which lets in the drafts
Each night I take to bed a hot
speckled riverstone, sleep deeply
anchored by its weight. Still wearing
Asia, an elusive scent on my skin
pulling out episodes for any listener
like pale bulbs from rich black soil

How one evening in Kyoto
a trainee geisha girl beckoned you
to accompany her, but in Japan
an invitation given once is hardly
an invitation. On the river banks
a man wanting English conversation
took my hand and said: ‘What is your
occupation? I am architecture.’
We sipped from cans which declared:
‘This chance romance between true spring
water and fine coffee beans has brought
you, reader this lucky drink.’

– 107 –

How inside Beijing’s Forbidden City
James Bond was giving guided tours
on cassette. Outside, under Mao’s portrait
a shoal of cyclists returning home
Solemn, I said: ‘Because China is
communist a red traffic light means go.’
Delighted you almost stepped into
a mêlée of limbs and spokes

Now, sitting in the curve of an enormous pine
a nasturtium bed below, and over the coast
a plane taking off for an unknown destination
I wonder Sol, are you still lured by
the seductiveness of absurdity?

Across the Briny

Sol writes to Nina

Dearie!! over salt and pepper sands
across the briny this letter arrives
and bows, picks its nose with its toes
I don’t remember the traffic lights
though I know I wanted to see Mao’s body
—a rare display, but Ellen was afraid
she might spit in his face, and you
had read he never brushed his teeth
Reluctant tourists both I had to cajole
and drag you to the Great Wall
Ellen showed off my eyelashes to you
teasingly you named me ‘Boyflesh’

– 108 –

Yesterday on the tube, bedraggled
middle-aged businessmen, younger
perky kiss-ass types. One bloke
roast beef faced informed his neighbour
‘The British pound is the world’s
greatest coin, it’s solid, you really feel
like there’s something in your hand …’
If you were here how we would have laughed
but straight-faced performing train theatre
I distributed gâteau, the words ‘French
moustache’ etched across upper lip

Every night before sleep, a projectionist
rolls up his sleeves behind my lids
and I have Japan on screen again
Last night at intermission, Nina
a fleeting glimpse of your country—
deep forest green, long empty beeches
Teething irks apart it’s blue skies and
scented vanilla here, sitting in a wicker chair,
Earl’s Court, Frank Sinatra filling the room
I’m like a Japanese, slowly learning to dabble
a toe, wade in and out of English currents