What I Remember of The Wars A poster on a pillar fixed with white, runny paste gives the stolid, soldiering face the milk-white translucent veneer of a blind eye, a foggy pupil, sightless in soreness, remembering stoically day-blue skies of vivid technicolour: visions of years cruelly torn away by twentieth-century jingles. The party line. Who we were, unspoken in the lime-bowers of our imagined intensity, the fantasy of two hearts open, spine-cracked, read. Your fingers trailing lightly over the leaflets of my guts. Later, your face turned away, aged impossibly, hardening like the soldiers' crusted with glue. It doesn't come back, the lines are saying, like the glory of the raping SS youth, mind empty in orgasm, pale, quivering cock between the thighs of a grimacing Dutch spinster who gazes out a splintered spidered glass and sees the first snows of late November quietly filling the streets like lace. Or, rather, a cab waiting outside a theatre, in Moscow, wheels knee-deep in drifts, idling exhaust for a couple long frozen in unspoken meter and the buzzing mid-afternoon pint bringing on its cloudy, human sleep. We who are fading photographs, sepia prints of loss, what I remember, what I remember: A woman can be alone, and not lonely, alone, and not hardened, still soft, wet, an open eye, on a soldier's face, post on a pillar, dreaming of things unseen but remembered imperfectly.
© Spencer Gordon