She seems to me to be a woman I should hate
because she’s sitting close to you.
I tell myself sternly that hating another woman
is not a feminist thing to do
but then she twists her hair around her finger.
I watch as your eyes linger on her hands.
I think of Pope: And Beauty draws us
with a single Hair and it’s then I know I’m lost.
I turn to my dull-faced companion, laugh louder,
harder, but the sound is an out-of-tune orchestra
in my ears. And I feel foolish and alone, as if I
was never loved. I say good night to everyone
apart from you, I want to keep this grief
of not-having, this murderous anger of desire.
I want you to see me leaving. I want to go to bed
and set my room on fire. I’m almost at the door
when I feel your hand on my shoulder and turn,
realise you’re angry. I’m just tired – you have fun –
see how airily I gesture to the room behind,
as if I’m made of air, as if any second now,
I’ll float up to my room on a cloud of air,
a balloon bobbing wherever the wind takes me.
I try not to let my eyes slide to her, but fuck it,
it’s done, quicker than thought, and of course
you know, you’re right there, can’t you see,
I’m begging for your hands on me…
Kim Moore’s latest collection, “All the Men I Never Married”, won the
2022 Forward Prize for Best Collection. She is a senior lecturer at Manchester Metropolitan University
[See also: The NS Poem: October 2023]
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This article appears in the 18 Sep 2024 issue of the New Statesman, What’s the story?