Rose Mary Boehm

clandestine

meet me at the old
Victoria station hotel
make it eleven.

hookers, lovers, trains
pass sooty windows

don’t bring luggage
just remember
how I loved you
last winter in Antwerp.

your wet skin reflects
the almost light
under these high ceilings,
bent venetian blinds hide
curtains torn by time,
the station clock
has no mercy.

Clouds of Cows

The manor house was complete with moat
and a regal lady.
She would ‘have me’ for a few days.
I felt shy, gauche, dumped, jealous,
convinced she’d been your lover.

You never said.
I never asked.
In the cocoon I’d spun from
a young girl’s delusions,
you were my prince, my saviour—
from what?

Watched your car
turn into the country road
that would take you back
to Amsterdam.

She told me more
than I wanted to know.
I woke to the first sharp rays
of a bright morning,
Bruch’s First Violin Concerto in G minor
and too much emotion.
She laughed at my discomfort.

Watched by a full moon
I walked to the copse,
wanting to howl like a wolf.

Shadows caressed my face.
A fat, moonlit cloud scared me
with white whirls of nothing.
It slowly settled at half-mast.
I could see only the legs
of the cows in a nearby pasture
but the cloud mooed
and ruminated.

How easily laughter
renews the young.

I’m so Glad it’s Not Happening Here

Ukraine is on the TV again.
Zap to see the end of ‘Fubar’
My next-door neighbor’s got cancer.
So glad it’s not any of us.
Went to the pub.
Jason came in through the swing doors,
pale as the snow which tried to follow.
Nearly slipped on that polished floor.
Nearly fell into my arms.
He was wearing his helmet.
Black ice.
Let’s get blitzed.
I’m buying.
There was an old woman.
Like the witch I saw in books.
She had a basket full of red apples
on this grey winter day.

On this grey winter day
she had a basket full of red apples.
Like the witch I saw in books
was the old woman.
I’m buying.
Let’s get blitzed.
Black ice.
Jason was wearing his helmet.
Nearly fell into my arms.
Nearly slipped on that polished floor,
pale as the snow which tried to follow
through the swing doors.
Went to the pub.
So glad it’s not any of us.
My next-door neighbor’s got cancer.
Zap to see the end of ‘Fubar’.
Ukraine is on the TV again.

 

A German-born UK national, Rose Mary Boehm lives and works in Lima, Peru. Author of two novels and seven poetry collections, her work has been widely published in US poetry journals. https://www.rose-mary-boehm-poet.com/