today the queen died

and we are stumbling drunk through vauxhall.

the soft golden glow of the streetlamps

shimmer over the black river.

we had done this before -- in the summer,

around the canals in little venice

where a black and white cat,

perched on the starboard deck of a red riverboat,

sat peacefully as her owner barbecued fish

and mediterranean vegetables.

we had done this before in the spring

and spotted fox cubs playing in the fallen cherry blossoms.

we laid down in the dry grass of hyde park

and made love under a dying sycamore tree.

the full moon hovered above the lake

like an omen, in the shape of my open,

moaning mouth.

today the queen died.

you cradled me like a child

in your long arms

and when i pressed my palm to yours

i was indeed child-like in my wonder

to find that your hands were not so different

from mine:

small, smelling of cigarettes, shivering

in the cold.

i slid

down to your wrist-bone

imagining how beautiful your skeleton must look

pushing again your skin,

muscles taunt like spider-silk.

i imagine ripping the fibres apart

the way my mother does with chicken meat to make broth.

i am always thinking of food.

i am always hungry. i am always sick.

(and i think of the shameless banquets your ancestors must have enjoyed --

heavy and gleaming in their silver armour,

showered in persian spices and indian jewels)

cupid's bow is still glowing red

from smeared lipstick and razor-burn.

the rush of blood to my face is savage.

your eyes are like infrared neptune with its own gravitational pull.

today the queen died.

there will be no revolution.

it is not inevitable the way they promised.

the streets are quiet with grief

and your mouth is covering mine.

somewhere in my bones,

in that hollow, miserable marrow,

i recognise you from a past life --

i whimper and yield to your touch.

you claim me, pry me open, and eat my history raw;

warm blood, red like the rising sun,

slathered on your beautiful face.

stranger, my love, it is not you i recognise.

it is the hunger.

it burns in me like an ancient memory,

like a thousand peripheral stars.