Alan Dunnett

A Reduction of Hope

They are moving beneath held discharges
of blossom with animal breathings
of concentration. Separate rhythms
interweave occasionally, purse
and judder towards private release.
Unwittingly, she calculates. Ever since
he struck the child, she has been absent.
Lord knows if returning can ever be possible.
Each lover bends her loins while the flesh
cooks, ready to serve, crackling, turning
in the chipped, fire-lit elements. Mention
her scalded cries that are funnelled down
a dark percolator with fury
and be assured they signify pleasure.
No one thinks again as still she presses
backwards, prime to snap in two, if it would help.

Later, she lies in a corridor,
with her face pulling down further
until her body receives
its autocracy of haglines.
Then she shivers and crawls, not quite
at the point of stopping. Her jaws snap
like an insect asking for air.