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September 26, 2011 / Rachel Bednarski

Eeeeee! I’m frantically counting out the brown pennies in my coin jar in an attempt to amass enough money for this and a ticket to her talk at the Cheltenham Literature Festival. As this scrounging is likely to prove futile I will console myself with a rereading Anne Hathaway:

‘Item I gyve unto my wife my second best bed…’
(From Shakespeare’s will) 

The bed we loved in was a spinning world
of forests, castles, torchlight, clifftops, seas
where he would dive for pearls. My lover’s words
were shooting stars which fell to earth as kisses
on these lips; my body now a softer rhyme
to his, now echo, assonance; his touch
a verb dancing in the centre of a noun.
Some nights, I dreamed he’d written me, the bed
a page beneath his writer’s hands. Romance
and drama played by touch, by scent, by taste.
In the other bed, the best, our guests dozed on,
dribbling their prose. My living laughing love –
I hold him in the casket of my widow’s head
as he held me upon that next best bed.


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