Skipping Stones ~~ anna hood

I've never been good at it
saying goodbye, but then who is?
It could never last
we all knew it
a God, even a minor God
couldn't last here.

A young woman, white as Antarctica
spoke his name.
He smiled, the lines
on his cheek like a sewn up knife
wound deepening
a familiar grin
young again beautiful
in that metallic pale light
his cigarette sparking tiny ruby
splinters on his glasses
his body trapped
in a place someplace
where I couldn't go
even his male smell diminished.

He told me all his stories
his throat vibrating
like a cello
all the stories that had been swept
under the carpet.
The fibres of his life
woven together, the women
the young men even the dogs
he'd known and cried for
brought out into that bald light.

'You must have,' he’d said,
'The Klee print
The Jack London - 1st edition
The three smooth stones
from The Ganges
Blue - the mongrel dog who sang along
with Pink Floyd' (dead now for years)
'my favourite pen.'

This was when I wept
and leaning over I kissed
him on the mouth
my breath flowing into his lungs
like a stone skipped
on the flat bay.