Forest Meeting

He's got a credit card for the deadlock,
sports a porkpie hat, Hawaiian tie;
in his pocket, the salt and pepper… A last glance!
That smile multiplies on cracked quicksilver;
in blood-flecked ivory, carnations bloom
from his lapel. Even as he stands,
framed by ebony, he's tracking her through
the twilight of the camera obscura
inside his head. At this same moment,
he in turn is being watched — through
a telescope in the attic of a house near
the forest's edge. The watcher homes in on
that rope of anticipatory drivel;
a protruding yellow tooth star-winks,
as in a cartoon. He lopes to the door.
Elsewhere, the girl is about to leave.
She's refused to wear red, saying her lips,
heart, hair, are red — isn't that enough?
The mad wardrobe-lady had visions of
a cocktail dress with sequins, menstrual-red;
garnet earrings; a gash of foxy lipstick…
Last thing, the girl accepts the scarf, ("Red rag
to a bull, darling!'), slips it inside her purse.
Now she's beyond the clearing, among high trees.
Already, radio contact is lost;
the memorized map has all but dissolved.
Good! — she wants to forge her own path through.
The moon enters a thicket of cloud, blanks out.
She thinks: even if this were being filmed
from a helicopter by infrared —
a veil of glimmering green on TV screens
across the nation — she'd still be invisible,
as would he… Fear has just switched on
its heat lamp: her body feels strangely bright,
her skin bubbles — a sensation she half-likes.
Now the trail is carved by tooth-shadows,
as are her thoughts. It's been put to her
that what she wants is to be raped, then kill
her "mother / grandmother' at one remove:-
buy a bloody freedom. She's not convinced
but come the end, she'll know. Naive, perhaps,
yet… could he, deep down, be drawn to her
as a person? And what does he look like?
They say this one's been around for centuries.
He's got human genitals, a human brain.
The wind gives a louche whistle, fondles leaves.
She's off the beaten track, and getting hungry.
In her basket, the port, black forest cake…
But she must go on! Suddenly, her legs
are skittering, stumbling; thorns rend cloth;
the scarf is yanked from her purse to hang impaled
on a branch. Snap of twigs somewhere behind? —
just ahead? — no, over there! The moon
silhouettes him propped against a tree —
ready to tempt with suave words, a shared
cigarette, the aphrodisiac of trust.
They'll chat above an undertow of sex:
she'll seem to make a pact, then run for it —
oh yes she will, he knows she will — leaving
a puff of mace, a trail of tacks; the map
in her mind alive again, flashing
pinpoints of light — like the one in view now!
That's Grandmother's porch! At last she's safe,
is scrambling up the dear rickety steps,
can hear the rocking chair rocking, the shutters
creaking their homely code. The camera crew
isn't here yet — it's all happened so fast —
but she's ahead of the game, the door's open
and there's Grandmamma propped up in bed
reading a book on lycanthropy,
humming… A falsetto greeting. Star-wink
on yellow tooth. That animal smell.
"Oh Gran, I've been so scared, a close shave… whew!'
She'll keep on talking, that's what she'll do —
surely the media will turn up soon.
Most of all she wants to outwit him,
snip the double bind clean through then see him
humiliated: taped and trussed in images —
that grin excruciating under arc lights…
There must be a storm brewing up! A howl
corkscrews the chimney: the fire's hair stands on end.
With aplomb, she pours two glasses of port:
"An aperitif?' — her bluff's as good as his.
Sipping, she recounts her walk — her mind aspin
with tabloid headlines: Transvestite werewolf
takes matriarch and virgin in quaint cottage.
Even if they're too late, she can be
(re)constructed in front of the cameras —
live — brought forth from that slit belly
while he lies haemorrhaging, screaming,
the cottage an operating theatre,
a TV studio… That hum is getting deeper.
As if copied from an illustration,
grey tufts halo his broderie anglaise
bedcap. She tries to mirror that winning smile…
The wind knocks loudly on the door; a star
is caught in lace curtains. He's out of bed:
bloated, yet eager to enfold her.
But he looks like a pantomime dame.
It's midnight. She turns the lamp off.
Flames fill her eyes. Her laughter drains the air.
She crackles. She burns. She knows.