Two poems by UEA graduate Judy O’Kane.
Readers’ Night at the London Review Bookshop
This isn’t a lonely hearts column,
it read, It is an occult ritual
that opens a gateway to hell itself.
I set up camp in Travel.
A man drinking red wine disappeared
into History. We stood our ground
staring purposefully at the shelves.
The bell over the door rang out:
we were open for business.
I followed a high-pitched
frequency audible only to dogs.
Pair-bonding began.
I circled the room (invisible).
Sea salt crisps
crunched out loud,
contorting my face;
they made perfect little bowls
for the peanuts.
I leafed through Wine,
Biography and Poetry,
abandoning half-drunk
glasses on the shelves.
I devoured peanuts
using the crisps as shovels.
I headed home
in the company of an old faithful.
I was taking a refreshing
turn about the room with Miss Bennett
as the Tube pulled into Covent Garden.
A tall figure asked, Is this seat taken?
We stared ahead
as station names flashed by,
as the train hurtled into the night.
Brace Yourself Bridget
Shakespeare was right,
Sell while you can: you
are not for all markets.
I made contact before
every date, in case my
face appeared on the
side of the milk carton.
I put the hours in. I
hovered over tables,
watching myself
flailing. He talked, I
laughed, we drank.
He disappeared
towards the bar;
I reached for my
phone: my bag
was gone. The
policy paid out.
Next time I made
contact with the
insurers: Cover me,
I said, I’m going in.
