Emily Bevan

Hotel.
A blank domestic canvas in plum.
Your home in a room.
No air in here
but you will survive on tea and shortbread.
A hairdryer, remote control and kettle at your side.
And a fresh pen for every fresh thought.
And if I spill the virgin ink
Someone invisible will bleach it away
Along with any trace of me.
I have baths and showers and baths
Because I can.
The art matches the curtains, matches the carpet, matches the pillow, matches the pen.
White sheets
Pulled tight across like a fake grin.
All the comforts of noone.
I shall listen to tv in the shower
And dream of breakfast.

No strings

On the side of the bed she sat,

as placid as magnolia paint.

The doorbell rang,

(a tiny pang.)

She uncurls and cat-like pads

softly descending each step,

careful to open the door

but not her heart.

Hi. He leans in.

She turns her cheek out

and a lost kiss

lands

at a safe distance

somewhere near her ear.

There was nothing to say.

The text had said it all

earlier that day,

“no strings.”

They are in her room.

They are sitting on her bed.

Their feet firmly planted in reality.

Space between them.

But their hands, brave explorers,

unconsciously uncurl

and find the other.

They watch them

like parent’s observing children at play,

free

fearless

frank.

A shared smile.

Foreheads eskimo kiss,

and cheeks brush

and eyes close

with a quiet meeting of minds.

A glance down at their wrists.

And there,

an innocent bow.

One half her and one half him.

They are tied together with string.

‘I’m sorry’, he says. I think it was me.

‘No, no’ she says, It was me

it was me.

A sigh floats them back

and their heads land like feathers.

They turn,

kaleidoscopic,

a pair of mindless magnets.

He brushes something from her cheek

remembering it is a stray freckle.

Holds her chin.

They can feel their feet start a brazen double date,

which is quickly turning into an orgy of socks.

And when they

unlock eyes

It is no surprise

that their ankles are bound like bandits.

They kick and twist to get free,

the string drops

but as she kicked

her leg crept over his

and found such a perfect place,

foot pressed on his calf.

And then arms couldn’t,

just couldn’t help

but follow suit, mute

but intent on the other,

and they held tight

to the rest of the night.

Their eyes are tight shut.

When they wake

they will see

what the morning will bring.

They are tied up completely in string.

Biog. 

Emily is an actress, who has played a range of roles from spirited zombie Amy Dyer in BBC3’s BAFTA winning ‘In The Flesh’, to her current role as psychotherapist Dr Rachel Timoney in ITV’s Doc Martin. Other credits include The Casual VacancyThe Thick of it, The Ark, Testament of Youth, St Trinians and Phoneshop. 
Emily has always used poetry and songs as a tool to amuse family and friends, or to mark occasions or memorable moments. Despite having read other people’s poetry at a few events & even on Radio 4, this is only the second time Emily has read her own poetry in public. The first time was a ‘Poetry at 3’, a few months ago, where Patric kindly invited her to read tonight.
One of Emily’s poems ‘No Strings’, has recently been made into a short film which is debuting at its first film festival next month.
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