The Princess of Odd Numbers

It’s getting dark.

The cypresses,

slender, respectful

genuflect to the sunset,

a horse’s eye

in all its majesty.

In their junctures,

iced from winter,

cooled by the breeze

from a shifting ocean,

the water never leaves.

 

She was light decanted

smiling in Polaroid

with that blackpurple eye.

An eternal song of fluid

collected,

harmony incarnate,

a triumph of blood and bone

baptised into death.

Buried starlight.

 

It was dark when they found her.

They’re pulling her

from the water well,

like sombre midwives.

Hair bedraggled

nestled, bedded

spread like spiderwebs

clung sopping to cheekbone,

I heard the water whisper

My pain belongs to me

alone.

 

They’re wrapping her in blankets.

We murmur misremembered prayers

to dumb gods.

It’s still in her lungs

never flowed

never drained.

There’s nothing as destructive as a need denied.

One blue lip

breathes water amongst the faithless buildings.

She strung gutless violins

my princess of odd numbers.

 

We all see through kaleidoscopes of memory

the scale of the damage

tinted and tinged

as we roll the lens and

watch each image drop into a different

taint.

Everyone is our past self at that same crossroads.

Right or wrong we hold

that terrible certainty.

 

Our pain comes dressed

in linen and petticoats

or armoured in doubt

pulled by the moon

as sweet as the water

she carried like a secret

in the warmth of her breast

with the tenderness of alabaster.

https://soundcloud.com/london_calling79/the-princess-of-odd-numbers