Elizabeth Loudon

enemy Camp

On that last afternoon we invented a game.
Remember? I played you, you me. 
You went first. You pretended to be 
a puff-cheeked toddler rumbling along 
astride her toy horse 
to the great tents of the generals 
where bearded old men called her sweet like a peach. 
Was that how you saw me, all drama and damaged goods?
But I couldn’t complain: we’d agreed to tilt 
the mirror of sympathy for each other, 
so I stashed the unsaid things
on a bony ledge at the back of my head.
I offered you coffee and said you’re welcome, 
though the sound of water filling the cup 
filled me with horror. Then I pretended 
to investigate a very small garden 
stuffed with flowers from another hemisphere.
I peered deep in their throats
and saw ants drunk on sweet pollen,
a thickening swarm of incomprehension.
Beyond the garden wall I heard the rattle 
of fishing-boats dropping their anchors.
Almost dinner-time, no more messing around.
The hills were scissored from a blaze of navy,
the stars beginning to assert themselves.
It was time to play midwife
to whatever you carried unborn within you. 
I rolled up my sleeves, boiled more water,
and met your eyes. Will this hurt? 
you asked, and before I could think 
of a lie I said god help me yes.

Elizabeth Loudon is a poet and novelist living in rural Gloucestershire. Her debut novel A Stranger In Baghdad was published in 2023 (Hoopoe, AUC). Her work has appeared in, among others, Trampset, One Art Poetry, Blue Mountain Review, Amsterdam Review, Saranac Review, Whale Road Review, Gettysburg Review, North American Review, and Denver Quarterly.

Elizabeth wrote the following about her poem:

Poetry and kind words can heal, but we can also hurt each other with our words, even (or especially) when we think we’re telling the truth. In ‘Enemy Camp’, I wanted to explore the emotions that lie beneath those terrifying moments when resentments flare up in an exchange of ‘home truths’, and a trusting relationship is damaged for ever. These conversations often happen when we’re far from our real homes, perhaps on a holiday, amid brooding mountains or above a coastline, so I set the poem on an (imaginary) Greek island, too.