We make the beds
together on Sundays,
looking at each other
through thin lips
that cut the space
between us—
and bleed delicately
onto the silent sheets.
You are the filament that illuminates my globe. You're present in the inflection of my accent, the distraction on my lips. You allow for my continuance like the pupil within an iris allows for sight. Painted on the walls of the world, etched clearly into the flesh of time— this permanence that is you. You are my history and my dream, the lyrics to my tune. You are my foreigner. You are my home. The cement in my paving, you're the stones from my sidewalk to the bench, the distance between familiar and unknown.
I remember your fingers
against my throat.
You talk with those hands.
Do you think I don't remember?
Or do you know that I do?
I bury humiliation beneath defiance.
You glance at your tie.
"Hand-wash only," sits smugly
on the lips you use to drink.
I don’t reply; want you
to be dry-cleaned.
You hold your head
(the brandy's in there),
think you can control my story.
I turn the page.
Since 2001 Candy Tothill's articles, essays and poetry have been appearing in various print and online publications, including Identity Theory, The Hiss Quarterly, The 2River View and The Pedestal Magazine. Her book Losing People is due for publication within the next few months, and she is completing a work of creative non-fiction, simply entitled Candy. She used to write as Candy M. Gourlay. Check out her web site at InsideCandy.co.za.