Craig Raine(b. 1944)
The Onion, Memory
Divorced, but friends again at last,
we walk old ground together
in bright blue uncomplicated weather.
We laugh and pause
to hack to bits these tiny dinosaurs,
prehistoric, crenellated, casthaving battlements
between the tractor ruts in mud.
On the green, a junior Douglas Fairbanks,1
swinging on the chestnut's unlit chandelier,
defies the corporation spears 2 —
a single rank 0 around the bole,row I tree trunk
rusty with blood.
Green, tacky phalluses curve up, romance.
A gust—the old flag blazes on its pole.
In the village bakery
the pasty babies pass
from milky slump to crusty cadaver,
from crib to coffin—without palaver.idle talk
All's over in a flash,
too silently . . .
Tonight the arum lilies fold
back napkins monogrammed in gold,
crisp and laundered fresh.
Those crustaceous gladioli, on the sly,
reveal the crimson flower-flesh
inside their emerald armour plate.
T h e uncooked herrings blink a tearful eye.
T h e candles palpitate.
T h e Oistrakhs bow a n d scrape
in evening dress, on Emi-tape. 3
Outside the trees are bending over backwards
to please the wind : the shining sword
grass flattens on its belly.
T h e white-thorn's frillies4 offer no resistance.
In the fridge, a heart-shaped jelly
strives to keep a s e n s e of balance.
I slice up the onions. You sew up a dress.
This is the quiet e c h o — f l e s h —
white m u s c l e on white muscle,
intimately folded skin,
finished with a satin rustle.
O n e button only to undo, sewn up with shabby thread.
It is the onion, memory,
that makes me cry.
B e c a u s e there's everything and nothing to be said,
the clock with hands held up before its face,
s t a m m e r s softly on, trying to complete a p h r a s e —
while we, together and apart,
repeat unfinished gestures got by heart.
And afterwards, I blunder with the washing on the line—
headless torsos, faceless lovers, friends of mine.