the canals I

My mouth aches. No, it is not a pain. It is an absence, an emptiness, a vacuous throb that originates deep, and tries to exit the body as an exhalation. But the wanting remains in my mouth, a sadness I cannot swallow, and so the insides of my cheeks pang, my jaw holds a memory of opening and closing, my tongue wants to move and explore; my lips tingle.  

For lunch, I ate a cheese sandwich (the sourdough, freshly baked; the cheddar, from a dairy in West Cork that was delivered last week) some carrot sticks, hommus, a mandarin, two caramel slices; my belly is full, but my mouth is empty once again. I ate it in the garden, rested my bare feet on the soft overgrown grass, and two robins twitched and played on the lawn before me. Over the fence next door I waved at Jamie, mumbling to himself and lifting blocks from one side of the yard to the other. Sylvester came running from the kitchen, stripey tail vertical in determination, to pounce at the robins. Despite his jubilant vigour he was unsuccessful, and watched them fly into the tree above with an endearing alertness, eyes wide, ears back. It was a wholesome scene, and the sunlight filtered through my body, through the prism of my very being, casting dancing rainbow light within. But the scene was a little too wholesome. My mouth is still empty. 

And so I pulled on my jeans - “outside clothes” - ran an apathetic hand through my hair, and pushed open the front door. Despite orders, the streets are alive. On thin pavements strangers and I attempt the social-distance dance, smiling tight-lipped at the ground, sometimes hopping onto the road, squeezing up against a fence. And then to the canals, where dogs run and swans are smooth and lazy upon the dirty, glassy water. 

In one arm a deliveroo man holds a package in his hand, his motorcycle helmet tucked in his elbow; he is pacing back and forth before an apartment block, squinting from his phone screen to the second floor above. He would be sweaty from a day’s work. Promising. His dark hair falls around his eyes, his strong brows and noble nose, his lips are full, but they are cracked and dry. I walk on. 

The young mum pushing a pram, eyelashes large and black, extensions probably. Leggings for pants, the wobble of her thighs, singlet top (first sun in weeks!) striding with an air of harassment as her toddler sleeps. Long straight blonde hair, generous breasts, bouncing with her steps. To press my lips to hers would be to taste first the sickly-pink of gloss, and then the cigarette smoke beneath, and then her own secret flavour. 

The woman with long silver hair in a ponytail, practical black pants and an olive puffer vest, sitting at the roots of a willow tree. Hands leant on bent knees, worry on her lined face as she looks to calm water. She leans her back on the sanctuary of the mothering tree.

Everyone I pass, in some way, draws me to them. Some silently recognise my hunger and as we stroll towards each other, minding the state-mandated two metres; our physical bodies keep a nonchalant candour but our invisible selves are dogs straining at leashes. Mutual burning eyes, metered by coy downward glances, the only visual proof of the aching fire within.

The man on a bench, stubborn shirt and tie. Laptop resting on his knees, tapping away as if there weren’t a cool river vista before him. Maybe I could sit atop his lap and let him touch warm skin instead of cold metal. Depending on how long we kiss for, his untrimmed beard could give me pash rash. He would taste of chocolate biscuits and coffee, and would be gruff and irritable, and then playful and warm. 

The dame. Forty or more, probably, with Portobello-style. Thigh-length turquoise jacket, shiny black boots with a heel. Matte-red lips, classic eyeliner, an air of authority. Of taking up space. She and her boyfriend, or friend, or colleague, is in a brown suit, and they walk quickly along the path by the river; surely they are dreaming up a project, negotiating the terms of business. She knows what she’s talking about, that’s for sure, she has no time for nonsense and there is no chance she will be taken for a fool; she steps as decisively as she speaks. She would take the lead in a kiss, yes, this is certain, she would cock a manicured eyebrow and push me up against a wall. As I cross their fast-moving path she notices my hungry gaze and her eyes linger on my face for a moment, yet her determined diatribe does not falter. Perhaps I am too close. 

I stop for a moment, watch teenage swans honk and rush for dominance as an elderly man throws torn bread from a plastic bag. I lean to press an absent palm up against the trunk of an ash tree. 

Wow. Here I was thinking about mouths, plump lips, the taste of breath, slippery tongues, and the hollowness that clutches my throat. But something throbs beneath my fingers. I trace an index finger along the cracks of the trunk, the textured pattern, part of a whole that reaches down to the deep soil, that pushes up to the freedom of the sky. I look around, no one is near, the lunchtime-stroll crowd are returning to their home offices. 

I turn myself fully to the trunk, and rest both hands along its edges. Then sink my torso, my legs, my pelvis, against its length. Life hums against me. I reach down with my right hand, touch my fingertips to its hard strange skin, follow the lines of nature and my hand is slowly stroking up, learning the intimate rivulets, its miniscule canals, inspecting with microscopic closeness the form I have walked past, unseeing, so many times. With one cheek I press my soft face against the scratchy surface, and breathe the breath of the tree. Called by something deep within, I turn my head to face the arboreal power in its fullness, and with all my aching hopefulness, with a gratitude that surprises me, I purse my tingling lips and press their delicate, rosy roundness against the bark.  

xx

feeling good? buy me a coffee.