NOTES ON HOW TO AVOID MEMORY-LOSS (2)

I left the bedroom window open last night

and a beast entered.

It sniffed the air:

I think it sensed me curled between the sheets.

It never guessed I was naked, waiting,

nor that I knew its name.

It was a mammal, this creature,

grown bald,

with sparse fuzz on its chest,

and round, pert buttocks,

eyes full of sleep and the horizon,

and a mixture of sea salt, tobacco and

bread gone slightly stale on its breath.

It dribbled froth all over the carpet,

and like a hell-bound ocean,

the fool started to spit and crackle,

looked right and left

and the walls gave way

like tombstones moulded in mud.

It scratched one shoulder

and my breasts billowed

like the world in the springtime.

I swear.

© Miren Agur Meabe