On London Bridge I Fell Down and Wept

My ex-wife sitting naked
on the bare stone floor
smoking my cigarettes
listening to the Songs of Leonard Cohen. 

It was the holiest thing that I had ever seen. 

*

She told me, last Monday, 
on that first night of her return
that she’d been working 
in Chicago, teaching 
‘Historical Printing Techniques’. 

I knew this to be untrue.

I’d seen her in disguise
serving at the Starbucks
on Charlotte Street 
a fortnight before. 

I didn’t mind that deceit,
just the muffins that she 
placed out of reach. 

*

She left me
because I got too big. 

Not in the career sense.

She became decisively cruel,
nicknamed me ‘the Room Darkener’. 

I eat more and more.

*

In her first few days
back in this flat
there was odd mumbles, 
some chanting. 

She’d sit on the sofa, 
eyes darting.
Perhaps searching 
for a mark on the wall. 

In the other hours in between
when not drinking wine
in her nakedness
she busied herself 
by making soup
using odd ingredients 
from the back alleys of Kentish Town.

There was a one-sided
conversation of her new plan. 
Fragrant potions would shed pounds off me.

I knew, that in the larder
rested an unopened jar
of crunchy peanut butter.

It made my heart beat faster
when I closed my eyes and addressed it. 

In those moments
I could feel her upon me 
convinced that I was having
a kind spiritual awakening.

*

Yesterday though I was led
into a candlelit living room. 

She swapped Cohen for Dylan, 
her hair was down. 

Wearing one of my old shirts,
her tongue licking thick, 
glossy, red lipstick. 

On the table stood a family sized
bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken, 
bottles of strong, ice cold beer.

She took me by the hand,
waltzed with me to the song, 
'All I Really Want to Do'. 

It’s one of my favourite tirades; 
I used to send her the lyrics
in those desperate letters.

I was kissed, 
encouraged to lightly 
stroke her boned back. 

She told me that she was in love with me, 
that she has been a vile liar. 

Her ways had to stop. 

We went to the closed curtained bedroom
sweating pure salt and history. 
That song played within us.

*
At dawn, I threw
the chicken away, 
the peanut butter. 

I walked from Bloomsbury
to London Bridge where
I fell down and wept
in the Covid rain. 

I caught the silent 
train to Lewes.

To Virginia’s gravestone.