Anonymous

 

Anonymous

 

1940, Rodmell, Sussex, England

 

The pages of a book shudder, flutter, then turn, all at once

a pen rolls to the floor

it is not the dream, nor the wind

that wakes her

but the low call in the air, in the sky

of her name, perhaps, or a sound, that falls over itself as it comes, like her name,

whispered too quickly between the creak of the floorboards

and the opening of the door

she seeks it

outside the night is high and black

clear and drawn all over with everyone else’s stars

she, a silhouette framed in an open door, half in, half out listening to the far, far away rumble of German bombers, of London burning, of the sky falling

but still, she hears it, a murmur, a snake in the grass, a feather falling, a moment passing from one page, to the next

 

 

1960, Lansquenet-Sous-Tannes, France

 

The North Wind brings autumn sooner than expected

brown and sweet and slow as treacle

today, it is melancholic, today it is tired

nothing more than the scutter of dry, dead oak leaves across her path

and the gentle flirt and tease of her skirt - a scarlet flag in the gloom

now, home, she stands looking out of the window above the kitchen sink

she sees how it plays, how it turns about and chases the cat that bristles and hisses and searches the space where nothing is and nothing was

it is here that she hears it most of all, here in the house of skeletons, where the chill slips, soft as fingers over the nape of her neck

she closes her eyes, feels it closer

as faint as a passing breeze, then closer, watches her, echoes in the call of a pigeon, the scraping of a mouse in the walls, it is full and faint and hollow, it rattles the branches of the trees against the glass and hisses the names of those before her, rising like steam, smothering and hot

 

1990, Washington Square Park, New York, USA

 

Even she, they say, hears it, even she, even she, at six years old with lollipop shoes and duckling yellow coat

she who stands in the rain, face upturned toward the sky, looking, looking

stands in the park by the river with the bronze monkeys

and the gazebo where last year she had a birthday party

six, she can hear the ticking and knows before it turns that the song of time waits for no man

it comes from the past, from the river, through the trees, through the leaves, a beat, a rhythm a chattering, faster, faster, loud and louder

takes her breath

leaves her bitter, but still, she finds it’s charm

and walks like she’s sleeping to the spot behind the fence where you can buy ice cream from a man with a cart in summer

 

2000, Marrakech, Morocco

 

In Marrakech, it is a song under the blood moon

heard in the dreams before dusk where the night is the colour of magic - blue and pink and feathered rose gold

higher, and higher it rings from the mountains to the sea, almost too high to hear

then, suddenly low, suddenly hot and light as air

between pattern and weave, fabric and pottery, it takes the voice of the stranger, the laugh of a lover, juggles them with a cry and skulks, greedy and wild

high up in a kitchen she hears it coming, knows it’s rhythm, knows it’s voice

here from the kitchen, she sees the smoke rise from the souk, cinnamon, spices, tempting and dark

try me, it teases, then, like Alice, Eat me, Drink me…

the giver of sweet things, it seeps, creeps, finds her, tastes her

 

 

 Natascha Graham

  

I am a lesbian writer of stage, screen, fiction, poetry and non-fiction. My work has been previously selected by Cannes Film Festival, Raindance Film Festival and has been published in Acumen, Rattle, Litro, The Sheepshead Review, Every Day Fiction, Yahoo News and The Mighty to name but a few.