Two Poems by Benjamin King

Photography by Mick Davidson

Cups and Spoons

We used to do the crossword

together

or sometimes I’d do Sudoku

and she’d just drink and dream

Me in my t-shirt

Her in her jeans

And we’d chat of course about things

or other things

or people who we knew or wanted to

Then one morning it was gone

Still sitting and sipping

and talking

but the way was another way or not our way and not the same

like it used to be

her and me

now she despised me and the things I did or had done

or the way I was or who I am

and I was annoyed at every little thing

I hated her neck

yet

here we were

early

finishing up like the days of old

before her breath began to mold

I rose to go

not ready to go

but the time had come and gone again

and then I felt her hand

and

she leaned in for a kiss

I obliged and spent the moment

thinking about all the little things that I might miss

but not this

the morning sun had given in to rain

as she turned back

to clear away the cups and spoons

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She Sits in the Corner

She sits in the corner, with a notebook scribbling,

reading,

thinking,

bleeding

And I wonder why she isn’t beautiful when she writes.

No lights tonight but the TV is on with the sound turned down and it’s hot.

She’s not drunk

but she’s drinking wine and not eating the grilled cheese sandwich I made for her with tomatoes in it.

I’ve eaten mine.

She’ll take her shirt off in a minute and I’ll look at her breasts, dripping with sweat. Then I’ll probably take the rubbish out and check on our daughter.

She asked me once, our little girl, why you can’t fill a net with water.

I thought the answer was simple at the time,

because of the holes in the net, and yet

here I am, asking the same and now

I think it has more to do with the water,

the way it flows, the way it knows where it wants to go.

Now I’m in bed and it dawns on me,

while she’s out there, left hand tangled in oily hair,

right hand clutching the pen too tight.

Ever since the night we met she’s been swirling around and through my net

and when she sits in the corner with her notebook scribbling

I can see it in her eyes.

The anger and the fear,

not hers but mine.

She is beautiful, in fact, divine.

I am the one who is ugly when she writes.

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