She seems to me (after Sappho)

She seems to me (after Sappho)

A poem by Kim Moore, 2024


She seems to me to be a woman I should hate
because she’s sitting close to you.

I tell myself sternly that hating another woman
is not a feminist thing to do

but then she twists her hair around her finger.
I watch as your eyes linger on her hands.

I think of Pope: And Beauty draws us
with a single Hair and it’s then I know I’m lost.

I turn to my dull-faced companion, laugh louder,
harder, but the sound is an out-of-tune orchestra

in my ears. And I feel foolish and alone, as if I
was never loved. I say good night to everyone

apart from you, I want to keep this grief
of not-having, this murderous anger of desire.

I want you to see me leaving. I want to go to bed
and set my room on fire. I’m almost at the door

when I feel your hand on my shoulder and turn,
realise you’re angry. I’m just tired – you have fun –

see how airily I gesture to the room behind,
as if I’m made of air, as if any second now,

I’ll float up to my room on a cloud of air,
a balloon bobbing wherever the wind takes me.

I try not to let my eyes slide to her, but fuck it,
it’s done, quicker than thought, and of course

you know, you’re right there, can’t you see,
I’m begging for your hands on me…





from Kim Moore, “All the Men I Never Married"