Queen Kong--Carol Ann Duffy

I remember peeping in at his skyscraper room And seeing him fast asleep. My little man. I’d been in Manhattan a week, Making my plans; staying at two quiet hotels In the Village, where people were used to strangers And more or less left you alone. To this day I’m especially fond of pastrami on rye I digress. As you see, this island’s a paradise. He’d arrived, my man, with the documentary team To make a film (there’s a particular toad That lays its eggs only here.) I found him alone In a clearing, scooped him up in my palm, And held his wriggling coma, shouting life till he calmed. For me, it was absolutely love at first sight. I’d been so lonely. Long nights in the heat Of my own pelt, rumbling an animals blues. Alright, he was small, but perfectly formed And gorgeous, there were things he could do For me with the sweet finesse of those hands That no gorilla could. I swore in my huge heart To follow him then to the ends of the earth For he wouldn’t stay here. He was nervous. I’d go to his camp each night at dusk, Crouched by the delicate tents, and wait. His colleagues Always sent him out pretty quick. He’d climb Into my open hand, sit down; and then I’d gently pick At his shirt and his trews, peel him, put The tip of my tongue to the grape of his flesh. Bliss. But when he’d finished his prize-winning film, He packed his case; hopped up and down On my heart line miming the flight back home To New York. Big metal bird. Didn’t he know I could swat his plane from the skies like a gnat? But I let him go, my man. I watched him fly Into the sun as I thumped at my breast, distraught I lasted a month. I slept for a week, Then woke to binge for a fortnight. I didn’t wash The parrots clapped their migrane chant. The swinging monkeys whinged. Fevered, I drank Handfuls of river right by the spot where he’d bathed. I bled when a fat, red moon rolled on the jungle roof. And after that, I decided to get him back. So I came to sail up the Hudson one June night, With the New York line a concrete rainforest Of light; and felt, lovesick and vast, the first Glimmer of hope in weeks. I was discrete, prowled Those streets in darkness, pressing my passionate eye To a thousand windows, each with its modest peep-show Of boredom or pain, of drama, consolation, remorse. I found him, of course. At 3.am. on a Sunday Dreaming alone in his single bed; over his lovely head A blown up photograph of myself. I stared for a long time Till my big brown eyes grew moist; then I padded away Through central park, under the stars. He was mine. Next day, I shopped. Clothes for my man, mainly, But one or two treats for myself at Bloomingdales. I picked him, like a chocolate from the top layer Of a box, one Friday night, out of his room And let him dangle in the air between my finger And my thumb in a teasing, lovers way. Then we sat On the tip of the empire state building, saying farewell To the Brooklyn Bridge, to the winking yellow cabs, To the helicopters over the river, dragonflies. Twelve happy years. He slept in my fur, woke early To massage the heavy lids of my eyes. I liked that. He liked me to gently blow on him or scratch, With care, the length of his back with my nail. Then I’d ask him to play on the wooden pipes he’d made In our first year. He’d sit, cross-legged, near my ear For hours: his plaintive, lost tunes making me cry. When he died, I held him all night, shaking him Like a doll, licking his face, breast, soles of his feet, His little rod. But then, heart sore as I was, I set to work. He would be pleased. I wear him now about my neck, Perfect, preserved, with tiny emeralds for eyes. No man Has been loved more. I’m sure of that, sometimes, in his silent Death, Against my massive breathing lungs, he hears me roar.