September 21, 2010 § Leave a comment
The kids are off on a school trip. I watch them pour on to the yellow bus like milk into a bowl. When now did I stop being eagar when did I stop fighting the fight when did I stop feeling? Once again it is the realisation of loss, rather than the loss itself, that halts me.
Somewhere it’s locked away and there it will stay for I do not have the key I threw it away, like a leaf from this activity. God, falling, decisions. I wanted to believe you would bring it back to me, the key, boomerang it back into my palm, but no, I understand you are as dead as the yew and you cannot see or question me. Oh dear dead boy. If I should think upon your blue lips I should think a lie, for you are skinned right to the bone, you are a body of water and unto it you have returned. Boomerang.
I have a fear I have this fire inside of me and I do not want you to read me like poetry. I want to be read like a list of items you have forgotten you needed, but know now, you need it. I want to be read logically and with dignity, a failed star bowing to its pitch.
Oh man on this moon of mine you are inside my chest heaving like an unborn, and I cannot rid my belly of this sea I must let it ride me. Dear dead man of moon you come too soon, and bearing I know not what, for I cannot see you. The sun is too bright and you die sighted by 6am and children, brushing their teeth among the tiles and tumblers and to’fro; the ebb and flow, the tide, the time being right. What is it?
It is nowt to I.