On the bed
a suitcase empty
but still open.
The room key's
ball and chain.
Your nightdress.
His passport
handed back
too quickly at the desk.
Look at him
and tell me
do you recognise this man?
2
Your heart is beating
behind bars.The blinds are down.
That hammering
is neither wind nor rain
but somebody wants in.
He waits outside.
A fine mist
shrouds his face.
You call him by a name
already lost
so who is it that comes?
3
Between the pillow
and his head
an understanding.
Between the mattress and your thigh
a sheet of ice.
Between his nakedness
and body heat
an absence.
Between your hunger
and his appetite
a shadow line.
4
The car you planned
to leave in
is unregistered.
Its ignition's tick
a flint
that will not catch.
The road ahead
has narrowed
to a vanishing perspective.
The way you came
without him
takes you home.
– John Mole
I found this poem in a back issue of the Times Literary Supplement (September 18, 2009) from among a stack of them given to me over the Christmas break by a friend. These words insistently conjure up the face of Lana Turner for me even though she is not named.