BLACK HAIR

she’d left one black hair

across the kitchen table.

she’d left it

where i would see it.

she’d left

leaving

questions hanging like her cheap fragrance

in the kitchens dirty plate air.

she’d left in a silver car.

she’d left a scented dent in the sofa cushions.

i am hugging/i am

desperately INHALING

the red cushion her head had rested on.

i

breath

it

all

in.

ALL IN/sad but

i laugh now at me.

i pour more Absolute into my Blade-Runner-square-glass.

i pour red blood orange juice

over

piles of white ice.

she’d said she likes to snack on ice/i said lots of women do.

this is when . . .

this is when

i find the stinking spindle of black hair

left like a cats dead gift

vivid

on the mess of the kitchen table.

a silent line there among the egg on things.

(circles flood a gentle flow.

unleashed in cautious trickle.

grateful but . . .

     i wish

i was

where a woman

can’t kill you . . .)

i sit now where she sat

(100 million angels singing!)

to try

and see what she saw

looking

into the

armchair i was

sitting in.

(Nick Cave is singing)

she might have seen the  

illusion of

an

ACTUAL

man.

i’m leaving the hair there.

on the kitchen table.

just there.

leave it there.

it is black . . . jet? dyed?

a hair.

she’d only been here half an hour.

she’d never be here again.

i am getting

on

with

xmas

alone.