At the
Sex Frontier
[…]
the holy show
that models how the world should be
and could be, shared, glittering in near focus.
- Les Murray
On a warm evening
breath and body-moisture
steam the glass,
making what should be
brilliantly clear
mysterious –
bright as a blur
of spoiled film.
But here I am, in
Arrivals,
pressing my hand on the
pane
to greet you.
When I take it away –
spy-holes,
an archipelago of dots
clear as landing lights
on the white surface;
and something I know must
be you
shifting in them –
sleeve, eyebrow, wink of
a button.
…Imaginary noir.
Behind steam
you seem an emanation –
of the density of walls, doors,
surveillance cameras;
precipitated along
corridors
with thunderclap
footsteps and slams.
Meanwhile, water sets
itself down
on all convenient glass,
such as this pane:
stitch by plump stitch
tacking together hot
and cold –
which can’t simply be
pleated
into
each other
as if this were that –
and my finger-holes
spread and weep
in glittery water-mesh
which, capturing a world
or two,
hooks them back
from this floodlit foyer.
Obscurely beyond,
you’re waiting for a kiss
–
semblable, frère –
but
when I search the glass
I don’t feel you. Only damp mineral shine,
dissolving cold.
And
yes, it’s odd
to reach across, cuff in
fist,
as if into dream –
making smears
which fade like Döppler notes –
towards where you seem
to hang
in the window’s two-way
mirror;
an icon on a screen
raising your hand to
answer me.
But when, finally, your face
comes puckering up, the
reverse of mine –
so that I lean
across the shiny space between us,
towards the image of me
floating in you
like a palimpsest –
when I raise the banner
of my lip-sticked mouth –
it’s over a strange land,
smudged with blue and
silver light.
© Fiona Sampson
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