Afternoons In The Love Museum

The sleeping head
of a hanged drayman

preserved in a
bell jar.

The ghost of his wife stares
through glass,

the dusty crevices of the
building heavy with age,

the liquid heavy also, preserving
all she saw.

Glistening in electric light
she is no more than a girl.

Her eyes swell at his thought
and touch.

Evaporating sulphurs
of her love

swirl around me and I
lean into the plinth

giddy with the moment,
the sheer weight

and hatred of that crowd,
eager with their shackles

and knives to punish
for his crime.

Giddy too in this strange place -
a love museum -

among the trinkets and articles
of faith

that drove a simple drayman
to kill

and elope into the forest
with his young love,

her father's blood
still warm on his hands -

well-dipped in a
sparkling brook

before he cradled
her in his arms.