I am reading 'Tom and Viv' by Michael Hastings again. It is such a beautiful play. Turns out that Michael Hastings is the grandfather of one of my best friends. She's now the producer/co-director for the play I'm currently directing. ... A schmoozing opportunity? Hobnobbing with one of my favourite playwrights? I think so. 

The Molecular Body

 Ophelia's Lament, or; Tom and Viv

The body is the place of love -
it happens right there, on
the skin or on the tongue, little pin-pricks
of knowing, bursting

into a carefully articulated
question, or a phrase that lightens
near the end. Why do you let me
continue in this way?

It always goes like this, she said,
soft in the middle and then blood
near the end, everywhere. Lymphs
pooling in the centre of the bed.

She used to steal the sheets. Stole
them for want of you, for love of
your body, you labourer. I am also
converted to thoughts of you, obsessed.

This city has a thousand tongues,
and they all speak apart. I see
you through the window, the sliver
of the outside world. Why challenge

me, why think me into life? The iron
in my blood, haemoglobin, platelets,
hormones and oxytocin and oestradiol,
spittle and oil, the salt that goes

into making me exist; all exist
separate. I am the miniature city,
my tongue the giant muscle that rolls
like the river through it.

You are remains, the compound that bleaches
bones in the sunlight. Why do you
let me speak without making a sound?
Why speaking? You. Speak.

Gregory and the Hawk; A Wish