Rocket – Fiona Clark

Rocket

My scarf on the wall is like a rocket taking off,
pointed at the top where it’s corners fold in, badly hung.
We are in a silent war of mouth shutting.
Where we’re taking off to is neither moon
nor new solar system of the promised land,
not the bench at the south wharf where I put adjectives to you,
put splendid to your hair, sound to your hips,
good as feathers to your neck and wrists,
curvaceous to the bones of your hands, to your eyelids,
described you into a vice. Dear, this rollicking
lousy rocket scarf of mine is on the rack.
I like your sickness and anxious back. I like you sound and glum.
The physics of move and lift without sum,
without weight. And no destination, none.