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I fell in love with a Chinese communist

He looked like he knew about decisions –
his hair was square and he was oddly ancient in conversation.

The courtship was modest, his kisses like sesames,
we sat legs origami on blankets watching them wash tarmac for officials.

We were married – agreed on proceedings,
made plans for where things would live domestically.

We were ergonomic, worked tirelessly wearing uniform affection
and were positive about the preventions for tall thin lipless children.

We were optimistic about all the changes,
followed the leaflet instructions and put the Buddha’s out on the street,

filled in forms about income and heritage,
draped the computers in red velvet each night before sleep.

We were meticulous with hygienics and made love
silently breathing into each other’s lips.
All the pictures we gave to the museum
and satisfied with atrophy gave ourselves over to the new flat blocks.

Oh what we said to the visitors was articulate
if we were like something, it was acres of complex under concrete.

We gave our hopes up like sofas which we left out in the street
and in the dark pressed the valves repeatedly.

It wasn’t that we didn’t feel, more that our spines were compacted
and we couldn’t look up.

We gave birth to a son who collapsed into our arms like perfect.
We fed him rice and jasmine and he grew telescopic.

We taught him humility, manners, money,
had table conversations about testing tomb linings.

He went to discos, spoke slangy,
and was angry all the time at everything.

He said we didn’t really get it and nor did the town planners,
that we were the parameters of productivity.

We just kept growing grass in hexagons, covering the carpets,
and he fell eventually in love with Christmas, trainers, cigarettes.

One evening, we crept in to see him dreaming hoping to still see some good
in the ancient decision of having made him.

But we caught him power pointing slides onto his duvet,
finger tracing sky scrapers of halogen along his penis.