Читать книгу Morning Breaks In The Elevator - Lemn Sissay - Страница 6

Each immaculate table a near perfect reflection of the next;

A ‘40s Hollywood formation dance captured in time –

In black and white.

On the mahogany, polished as a morning pond,

Each tablecloth flapped as swan’s wings

And each landing perfect.

She made pieces of butter, intricate

As the hand-woven curls in a judge’s wig.

And if not so legal and final

They’d be a crest of waves

Caught in yellow sunshine.

Each serviette a silent smiling signet born in her hands,

Each flower arranged as if grown for this evening

Sucks water slowly through the stem and raises its neck.

They bathe in the light flitting from cut crystal vase

And stand assertive in centre tables, waiting.

She picks a speck of dust from a spotless unspeckled carpet.

Her reflection buckles in the neck of a mercurial fork

While the solemn red candles wait

To weep their red tears.

She pauses as a mother would for a moment

In the front room, before the visitors arrive,

In admiration and slight concern

And bathes in the symmetry and silence

And the oddness of order -

Even the tables seem to brace themselves as she left.

The picture was distorted when she returned from the kitchens.

A hungry hoard of steak-sawing, wine-guzzling,

Spirit-sapping, double-breasted suits had grabbed their places.

They dug their spiked elbows into the wilting backs of tables.

The tablecloth dripped congealed red wine from its quiet hanging corners

And the sounds of their grunts, growls, their slurping,

Their gulping and tearing invaded the hall.

But a black swan amongst a sea of serrated cutlery, she soared just abov

And wove a delicate determined ballet inbetween and invisible.

She walked for miles that evening, balancing platters,

Pinafore-perfect hair clipped so not to slip.

The wine warmed and the candles cried.

In the background of the lashings of laughter –

The guttural sound of wolves.

She retrieved a carcass of lamb, poured red,

And didn’t notice the bloodshot eyes slide over her:

Nor the claws stretching and puncturing leather brogues;

Scratching the wooden floor; nor their irritation at her.

One mauled a mobile phone with a clumsy paw.

The alcohol-fuelled change was taking hold.

And together they could be and become who they really were.

Wolves. Wolves in their pride. Wolves in their pack.

Their lower jaws had stretched and eyes slitted –

Some even bayed as wolves, heads flicking side to side,

Tongues slipping low, slow and deliberately from their mouths

And curling sensually to their snouts. The wolf has a permanent smile.

It grew, first half-cough, half-bark. One paw banged on the table,

Another banged and another and another and another

Until the whole hall echoed with the unified clatter

Of the guttural phlegm-flicked word that brought them together

“Gerni gerni gerni gerni,” they chanted. “Ggerni ggerni ggerni,”

they chanted faster. “Ggerni Ggerni Ggerni Ggerni,” faster and faster.

“GgernigGerniggErnigggeRniggerNiggerNiggerNigger”

She turned to her colleagues who stood by the kitchen entrance

But their eyes! Their eyes slipped sideways away from her.

They too were wolves! Her lips parted for her voice and the room hushed itself

But for the slipping of saliva from their jaws and the flickering candles

And the dripping of the red wine from the tablecloth.

As instructed by her manager, she, smiling politely,

Asked a wolf, “More coffee sir?”