Images from Childhood
The memory quickly fades into origin:
days of sunlit, ashen mornings, and the golden –
bouncing off the copperware, the field of green,
chiseling away the edges, the teeth-like irregularities,
and softening June with the colour of setting suns.
Surrendering to the shape of birds at twilight,
and us – little figurines, hands a mess of bones,
Bodies tumbling towards another fate.
This was back when we couldn’t separate
the glow from the sun, the fire from the spectacle –
younger versions of the same self,
stuck in a heaven of their own making.
And the solitary image, stuck like a riddle in my head:
you, running towards and running away,
And your little hand – a fist around mine,
Tight and tangible and dreamy,
like an aftermath of some great frenzy.
And the house, still surviving, breathing with wind,
existing not as some painting or a photograph,
but a structure, a monument, that lived on
even when the sunsets, and the birds and us -
all had stood up and left.
Notes on an Evening
In another world, I walk along a pier in a city that isn’t mine. The darkness
reminds me of some kind of worship, and the water - liquid and fumbling.
The first time I’d experienced winter was in an abandoned park, and the light
closing itself into a coffin. How strange, this memory of stars. Little winks
from a distance you can’t scale. And my eyes: only an instrument, empty,
lacking, lagging. The ocean - far-off. The sky - a lifetime away. The raspy
whispers, noise, pearls, and the town that set itself on fire. I’m so limited to my bone.
The cold, embracing, like something that doesn’t love you back. We’d known
this before, felt this before, waiting for words from a mouth that is turned towards
another cup. The silence was never a virtue. My mouth, sewed with a fabric of glass.