Helena Carolinska A
string of pearls untrue Your words were wound around My neck, Pretty pearls strung a string … Of lies That you captured with a clasp and held fast in your grasp, To tighten at YOUR leisure. Who could doubt such white innocence? Every bead And letter Just fetters that Shone like the sunny soul you showed us and dazzled me for a while, To hide the darkness within. No longer shall you rein Me in With your torturous ties; Worthless Christmas cracker prize: These plastic imitations, barely cool to the touch Could never ever melt MY Liberated Heart. London 2006. The red flowers from Spalding and Amsterdam (are dead) My love found you A
boy, Poet. And it sucked the words out, Sensually … And made them shine, Then eclipse me. So I took the tulips You gave me, Out of the water And into the Sun, To die. There. Because they were too beautiful. Because you were too beautiful. Paris 2008. An apology We had some good times together, Didn’t we? When you would play “Salty” And I’d be your “Baby”. And before that. Before America cast his green gaze upon me. (his Boston eyes were smiling. I’m sorry) but I was just trash. We had some good times apart together too. When I was there And you were here And after that and now? Now French fools court me in the night. (my body too young and restless to resist. I’m
sorry) but I do not dance for them. Let me Break their hearts One by one, All of them, (all and none) Like he broke mine, Like she broke his, Like I broke yours. Let me reconcile this. Paris, August 2008. An explanation That air conditioned summer still chills me to the
bone: I
was hotter for you than ever before When you, You were tepid. I
have not written to you since then I know. And it must seem strange seeing as we, We were friends. But New York still hurts. The film of us runs on a loop and In my days like nights I see us Running in and out of golden cabs hand in hand You in your suit Me in my evening dress Sharing secrets on street corners By bars where they knew your name And me the mystery From England, via Paris. Oh the glamour of my broken heart. I
guess where you’re from they don’t do things by
halves: In the back of a taxi Downtown to Battery Park your expensive backhand Sliced it expertly in two And arriving at out final destination I
smile as you open my door For you were Ever the goddamn gentleman. New York, July 2008. R.S.V.P. Dear You, French lover do not send me an invitation To our friend’s Expo opening By the Pont Neuf in Paris, When I am in England. (It is too perfect And I am still wild, Not the cool English woman I pretended to be. But I think you know that.) French lover you have loved me As a man when I was a girl. That was dangerous, Please remember that. And finally French lover Now that I have the true love of another Do you love another? I
wonder that. (Although I know you do. I
think you always have.) P.S. Sometimes I think of you And wonder why I won’t allow myself to fall For your “simple life.” And then I remember French * Lover. But oh French lover, Why Japan? Bisou Nottingham, 2008. Footnote French: The language of love, Mon amour. English: The language of lust, Baby. But “Je t’aime” They shout on the streets. “I love you” Once and under the sheets. Rather the rare I love you from my English man’s
lips, Than the je t’aime that throbs from French mens’
loins. Nottingham, 30th September 2008. | 
