Ray – Harriet Harding

I sat on the toiletseat talking to you in the shower
as I used to do with your sister.
Both tattooed, she used to talk to me for hours, wash her hair, wrinkle up.
I’d reciprocate piano loops, and sex
and 2042 breakfasts
and family.
Big red outdoor walls
White framing
One night you called me for movies and pizza.
I was already out on King St
“next time”, I said.
When I walked home later I found my room blue movie-screen lit
and you and Ash in my bed
“We saved you some…”
And in that bed you did help save me.
When I couldn’t see further than the same set of clothes,
stopped eating, shoes on in bed, you made me tea,
I think you even got a laugh out of me.
I remember waking to damp tea sheets and blankets,
You next to me, 3am, asleep with an empty white mug
and peaceful expression.
We talked big ideas.
You gave me your old skateboard.
I saw your pain when your words quickened
(your stepdad was over)
and felt distance
like soundscape guitars
over my travel itinerary.
You pushed open that old wooden gate, stepped under the
spiderwebs and were home.
(We’re still breathing out Camden slowly, aren’t we?)