CHRIS STEWART

★ ★ ★ ★

POETRY

Ouija Wine

I’m getting a D,
I’m getting sour sips at the coffeepot,
I’m getting a Dave.
Anyone know a Dave?

I’m getting piquant notes of chlorine.
Did Dave drown or like swimming baths?
I’m getting a cloying sense of desperation and regret,
Facsimile paper and a strong uvula response to carbon paper
And fingerprints.
Yes, a robust, deep squall of octopus and calamari,
18-30 holidays, full English breakfasts and verdigris,
And an allergic reaction to Pina Colada and pork medallion
And the theme of Only Fools and Horses – he was a fan, wasn’t he?

I’m getting a glottal stop;
No, a sibilance.
A Sam? A Stan?
Stanley was his middle name
Or a friend of the family or a football team or commercial –
It’s a commercial isn’t it? He used to watch telly, didn’t he?

I’m getting a strong odour of cat vomit and tears.
He was an ex-pat. Somewhere without UK extradition orders.
I can smell strong bituminous tones and tar moles.
He liked a good Guinness or peaty whisky,
You associate that strongly with him,
Don’t you? Coal, firedamp and saltpetre
And a snifter of cherry brandy and Lucozade –
He had his arm in a cast, at some point in his life;
You might not be aware, but he did, didn’t he? He did. Broke a metacarpal
Like promises, birthday cards like the end of Psycho,
A cross fade to a memento mori,
Some sort of unfathomable quadratic equation,
And Bobby, bobby’s hats and streakers, double-backed bacon
And streaky backed plastic or blue movie starring a Peter. He was Danish?
That’s another advert, isn’t it? Or the Match of the Day.

He liked football:
Saturday mornings,
Urgency and grass stains,
Jumpers for goalposts,
Mud, Persil, blood oranges, iodine
And hastily enforced secrets,
A lingering aftertaste of fool’s gold firedamp,
The sweet tang of tea lights and pig’s trotters, Skol,
All mashed with ground glass,
Dredged tambourines and Our Lord’s Prayer.

I feel a lot of weight bearing down on me when I think of Dave –
Marsh gas and dermatitis with a definite whiff of brine. Was he an avid swimmer?
Yes, a strong, salty crispness relieved by an undercurrent of shame and night terrors –
He was your uncle, wasn’t he? Damp dog at the back of the throat
And a three wheeler van full of Dalmatian puppies.
Though the puppies could be smudged fingerprints
Seen close up. Resistance now again and a glottal stop
And a copper tang like a choking penny gagging at the back of the throat,
And a nosebleed sluiced through with oysters and Reyes solution.

Is any of this making sense?

He’s fading now.
What’s that, Dave?
He says not to worry.

He’s waiting for you.