Mary Mulholland
It was not long after water flooded your flat.
jewelled the walls, like there was no roof –
the builders said leaks always cause most damage.
You’d had enough and moved to America,
as if you’d be dry there. A year later I flew over
for your wedding. You fell for her because
she had a dog in her handbag, which she called purse.
One of those fluffy white toys with big eyes.
She was pretty with long dark hair.
You showed me photos of the two of you
in snorkels, underwater in the South China Sea.
She held your hand because she was afraid of water.
She was afraid of many things, like big dogs
and mothers. She was so tiny, you could pick her up
and put her in your pocket. We met at the Whitney,
before it moved. She wanted to see Jeff Koons.
We drifted through, the three of us, the dog
in her bag, and she photographed your reflection
on the shiny giant poodle; she said it looked
like you were made of pure gold.
Mary Mulholland’s poems are published in many journals and anthologies. A former psychotherapist and journalist, she lives in London and has an MA from the Poetry School. She founded Red Door Poets and co-edits The Alchemy Spoon.
andotherpoems.com 