by Peter Holm-Jensen
I made sounds with him I never made with you. He never talked about being shipwrecked between my legs, he never bored me with speeches about the essential solitude of sex. He never clutched Madonnas in bed. His house was airy and free, he gave me room and gave my body what it needed. He couldn’t have cared less about the Rose or the fullness of my lips. I never missed him.
Peter Holm-Jensen, whose full catalog is here, is an émigré living in the UK, where he writes Notes from a Room.