I once knew a woman who could not be denied,
Could read me like the spectre of her favourite
Childhood book – a tattered, repeated memory –
Giving talismanic comfort by her bedside.
A woman who shared my unique flavour of wit;
Never silenced minutiae or trifle story.
A woman – a find – who could sing, in perfect pitch,
Queen of the Night’s aria from The Magic Flute.
Singing and playing at, and by, the piano,
Her specialised vocals would give us both a stitch;
Tinkling her ivory skin and ebony loops
Of screen vamp hair until invoked to let go.
A woman who could pour Hell’s vengeance upon
Me and still lead me around by any extremity
Like a willing slave. There is no hardship that goes
With our hearts’ shift – arias are written for one.
Our misunderstandings are a calamity;
Feelings out of tempo make men and women foes.
Thus spoke that strange prophet, one of those things he knew,
And yet he still desired it; weak, like me and Lou.