D a v y n e V e r s t a n d i g

poems | memoir | story | novel

	forbidden “It is hunger for what we do not have that holds us together.” Michael Ondaatje, Divisadero rain on the tin roof sounds like clouds scattering tiny coins he plays the piano dust lifts from the keys a fragile ladder of tears is her face they tremble beside a jar of silken moonlight the tapestry fades tomorrow offers only broken wings the iris knows her name oranges remember their tongues he recalls the day he found her beneath stones and ash beside the riverbank where they made eager love their lips swollen with a long hunger the final dawn of their pilgrimage her eyes are still the colour of clover his dark as rich earth his father’s men are hunting them only deep snow and silence can hide them he climbs her ladder of tears they will not surrender

	soap it wasn’t expensive the box of 12 bars of Chinese sandalwood soap she gave her lover an untraceable gift one that disappears his wife asked “why sandalwood soap since when?” he loved Nora remembered their evenings firelight, cognac, sex bathing together with sandalwood soap when he couldn’t be with her he enjoyed the teasing torture of her scent they exchanged no written words of any kind not letters not books theirs was just the scent of sandalwood and sex

	a suite of longing “I like a look of agony/ because I know it’s true.” Emily Dickinson alone by the lake a little drunk the woman with the broken heart wishes for a lover to make dinner for she wants to make pasta heat up her homemade sauce place a loaf of peasant bread on the pine trestle table open a bottle of good red wine light candles fill two goblets dish the pasta and sauce onto two white plates beside sky blue napkins eat slowly talk quietly or not at all the company of a lover enough after dinner she breaks a bar of dark chocolate into pieces sets them beside slices of apple finds her bottle of cognac fills the snifters takes her lover’s hand climbs the stairs alone by the lake with cigarettes and a bottle of beer notebook and pen a little drunk perhaps the woman wishes

	love poem watching an ant carrying its dead how little humans know of loving
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