This weekend we went to Baltimore where my British boyfriend attended his first baseball game, met my family's alpacas, got drunk in Fells Point, visited the Maryland State Fair, steamed and ate Chesapeake Bay blue crabs, toured a submarine, brunched at Woodberry Kitchen, and went on a sunset sail around the Harbour. On the plane ride back, the film we opted not to watch, The Ghost Writer, starring Ewan McGregor, played on the screen in front of our seats. Here's a poem not about that film.
I feel like Ewan McGregor’s character
in Shallow Grave—pinned flat to the pine floor
by the knife his best friend stabbed him with. That same
friend lies beside him, dead. The girl took off
with the bag of loot and boarding pass but not
before she used her shoe to hammer in
the knife so Ewan couldn’t follow her.
He smiles because beneath the planks
he’s anchored to, his blood drips on the bills
that aren’t, in fact, inside the sack the girl
is hauling to the plane. He knows the knife
will be removed, and while it’s going to fucking hurt,
he’s set for life. Until that time, he waits,
unable to remove the knife himself.