Close Your Mouth and Open Your Mind

Vita Westwood and Damien packed in cotton,
mouthing, We’ll see you again—one day when
you melt silence with tongue, freeing from prison
your mouth; asking us if you can trust an old cunt
and her son.

I woke up from my fill of chloroform
still green from him leaving me,
Damien to his mother redeemed,
and I fingered from betwixt my lips’ brickwork
a dry kiss, dusting it onto his—
a portrait pissing oil into a smile I’d already missed—
and knowing I’d never wet him again,
I pondered how it came to this.

Vita tested limits, scaling my heart’s cliffs,
causing crags of its split rocks to shift,
not knowing I’d already toppled Damien’s—
shattered fate from his grip—
and his mother, that calculating witch,
crawled into my thoughts, defacing memory of his
face, and tearing fantasy into fits
I’d wanted to save but didn’t.

Into the roses littering guilt
fiery scent emits, and all who consume it admit,
to trample love without consent contradicts
compassion its rational gift;
such to Vita is what my letter had said—
dumb as I still was, my mouth having been stuffed with
her thickest attempt to mute us, to block up what Cupid
had unhidden.

Within a fortnight her reply arrived and I mistook
the pink envelope for pacific
current, how its perfumed paper flooded
into my foyer—why her son did not
intervene remains the deception her missive
deprived of explanation, though I am certain I saw in
the water tears staining her presentation hand its
Italianate elation, as it otherwise swirled; surly, as if
drunkenly inked, saying, My son is not yours—your heart
cannot contain for long enough an eternity, all of
his love; love which was meant for me.

Signed in haste with a scrawled V.,
I grasped the symbolism but ignored its
effort at painting victory; instead, I read again and sent in
that same day’s post, a rebuttal proving Damien
was mine and that no one, not even she, could concoct
a ruse to deprive us of being true to ourselves—
we’d survive; even with a closed mouth,
love can have an open mind.