Poems by Rosemary Norman from videos by Stuart Pound click here for synopses & stills, clips & index ALARM I knew a woman, once, who wrote me letters so wide open with love I swear I smelt it. Not that she'd say, "I love you". But every article snipped from a paper, or recipe for herbal tea (I have a difficult bowel) she'd make a gift of, folded in the pages to stir me up to shame. Ms X was not like that. "Ms X" is what the busybodies call her. I never met her. Who she is, is secret. She strung me messages in her cool garden, where I'd nightly gather them; panties like pale, watery moons of satin, lilies adrift between the ponderous trees. I'd draw them to me and my soft breath moved with the garden's airs. Her husband was a ruffian electrician, whose one word was buzz, buzz. He set a trap for me. Alarmed the line. I reached out, and his din broke my silence. The window where they slept blared with his light. Her lace, between my idle thumb and fingers, had nothing more to say. Minutes after, his cuff bloodied my mouth.