One Poem by Alexandra Marraccini

Written in response to this month’s Special Challenge.

Red Bed Intercessory

There is nothing but that red upholstery,
Piped in a crisp white.
There is nothing but that red upholstery

And terracotta like a hexed
And infinite byway
To the monkey-puzzle tree
In the square courtyard.

Appendages as
Disconsolate with summer;
Limbs, like a child, splayed,
Spindly in his school shorts.

The ooze and crisp break
Of pine sap, the coniferous
Black of Whitby Jet,
Of eyes like jet like obsidian
Sharp in the gape-hot
Mouth of the afternoon.

I want nothing
And am nothing
Here in this moment which
If Pompeii or fossil or asteroid,
Or sickly chloroform like a ward,
Suddenly preserved
Would have only

That red upholstery,
My vacant lapwing
Wader’s eyes, and

Waiting, waiting predicate
To mourning, predicate to
What I did or
Did not do.

 

Alexandra Marraccini is an art historian who drinks icy, sweet lattes with a certain wild abandon. She lives in London.

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