no lover or wife or other can claim you while you are with me

Let’s just imagine that you are magical, 

that no light would flicker and no battery 

die and no lover or wife or other can claim 

you while you are with me. Let’s imagine 

that you shiver and shudder and eat 

my lamb and my rice pudding and drink 

the wine and the whiskey and the cognac 

and the elderflower never taking your 

eyes off me. Let’s imagine that I am also 

magical and can cook lamb and rice 

pudding and pour many drinks without 

ever taking my hands off you. Let’s imagine 

you are unable to control yourself when 

we are together, that we are all thumbs 

and soft mouths and terrible fingers 

and eyes of moon and eyes of sea and that 

we smell beautiful to each other for no 

reason. Let’s imagine you drove to my 

house and your headlights did not flicker 

and your battery did not die and you 

were able to control the car and so 

are not on the side of the road, not dead 

or hurt but not anymore on your way 

to my house either, calling your lover 

or wife or other to come pick you up 

and bring you home instead of coming 

here, where there is no lamb, after all, 

and no more wine, either, after all 

this waiting, imagining you’re magical, 

imagining what you’d say to her: “Um, 

I was on the other side of town to pick 

up some wine for dinner” or “I was 

meeting old buddy Tom for a drink, he’s 

just in town the one evening. Might 

be home late.” But you were never 

coming over, never even invited. As if 

I’d ever be so clever. In fact I was just 

imagining you’re magical when you called, 

roadside, nearby, a blown battery for 

no reason, for a ride home to your lover 

or wife or other. You were on your way 

home to her where she was preparing lamb 

and rice pudding and when I dropped you 

off you invited me in and I said no, not 

taking my hands off the wheel, though 

I wanted to imagine that your eyes flickered 

and shivered and you said you couldn’t 

control yourself, couldn’t take your eyes 

off me, that I smelled like beautiful wine, 

like elderflower, like pussy willow, 

that you called me lamb and kissed me, 

knowing that this very last part is the story’s 

only true part, in which you touched 

and kissed me with your wheel of fingers, 

your terrible lying mouth. 

 

[Brenda Shaughnessy {1970- } 'It Never Happened', from Our Andromeda]