Eat your luggage
I said, “I want to eat your luggage.”
You put down your coffee-cup, which still held
a rope of bubbles styled as your lips;
you licked their template, ripe as a mango,
looked at me, and said, “How?”
My explanation consisted of demonstrating wedges,
cakelike, great wads of mock-crocodile shived by my old,
token kris (the one I brought back as contraband from Java)
and served on slipware, sluiced down with India Pale Ale,
the catches, clasps, locks, and handles arranged on side-dishes
to be savoured later.
You picked up your cup again, sipped, re-sculpting
the bubble track with your mouth,
and dropped eye-contact to ask, “Why?”
I went on as though I hadn’t heard, exposing how the contents,
discovered, and eaten too over weeks, reveal your secrets,
things about you unknown even to yourself. Look there
– the merino wool sock, lost two trips back, now
an afternoon snack for me.
You kept at your coffee, gazing at a spot on the wall,
saying nothing, but pushing your overnight bag towards me
with a single, elegant, shoed foot, a slave bangle
looped at the ankle; the bag was such an object
of appetite and longing, its monogram a tangled LV,
its chine thirty-year-old poplar, it’s pick-proof locks
ripe to be tried by a tine of my fork.
At such times what a monster I become, lost to anything
but my consumption, and so I picked it up,
vowed to take it home to board it, section it, maw it
piece-by-piece; I invited you to come and see.
You put down your coffee-cup, say, “Okay”,
slung your trenchcoat round your shoulders,
and took my arm to leave.