I Birth as a Car Crash
The damp on the side windows blocks the view.
The car won’t start. I’m stranded, lost.
The mechanic’s hardly more than a boy.
He leans with one hand on the door handle,
the other, imprinting itself on the roof, reminds me
if you feel something catch, change down.
He slaps the roof twice and steps back,
gives me permission to leave.
The road is a dying meteor behind me.
In my rear-view I see my life approaching
at high speed. Crashes. Stops. I step out of the car.
I am decades younger, howling, slippery with blood.
I have just begun my future.
Whisker
A single whisker –
a trembling white line
left on the carpet.
My daughter, three years old,
rubs it between thumb and forefinger
and holds it up
to the light.
She can handle what I cannot:
its tensile beauty,
its tapering fishing-rod form,
its pale-to-darkening root,
the itch or twitch
that lets it go.
For the cat, it’s a small lost part
of the means of divination
of space and breadth.
For my daughter, it’s something
to put in her special paint box,
or to forget about.
For me, it’s the humming, buzzing
antenna we all must discover
sooner or later, persistent as
the burnt-out wisp
of a firecracker on New Year’s Eve:
a moment irrevocably gone,
marking whatever arrives.
Billboard: Large Exclamation Mark
It was a vertical slash like that made by a madman,
or a ripper, perhaps. Or that of an artist with a house paint brush.
Or a forgotten sheet in a photographer’s old lab
hung up in darkness, sans the dust. And there, beneath,
is a cosmic hole the size of a child’s head.
It begins nowhere but in itself. It does not end,
cannot be taken by the hand and led.
Trust stops here, it’s said.
The two companions are breached by shores
of pasty white. They swim and call, hope
for a tide to take them past the the rocks, and out. You can
drive right past: the slash, the dot. The unwritten sentence
sentences you to question every why, or what.
The Book
It was the last thing I noted
before Derek responded Hey, lez go
down to the lake for a jol.
He wrapped the book of me
in waterproof skins, rubbed it
till it shone like hubcaps,
popped the whole poem of me
into his canvas rucksack.
It smelled of burnt coffee
and diesel, but I made my peace
with it, and the day was half-
good, I’d say. That night I slept
rough between the paraffin stove
and the empty skottel.
Derek must’ve forgotten
I was there, for in the morning
he buggered off
and I spent three summers
lying on my back,
a sedentary jolling between seasons,
between selves, between
the long and the short of it.
But that was something
that never got noted down,
although it’s stayed with me
ever since.
How to get rid of it,
I couldn’t say. At any rate,
not until Derek comes back,
his hands sprouting prose,
his breath like stitches along my spine.
Selfie
In the selfie I took
with my tablet
(in technicolour, fully HD)
I saw what it is
to be old. Lines that aren’t
there were suddenly
exposed. My skin, once tanned,
was the colour of stone,
and from my stone eyes,
in their blank hunks of light,
was reflected nothing,
the way dead people reflect
and living people like
to forget they could
indeed be old. The selfie
slides back into its tile
of glass. It remains
in perpetual sleep.
I shall not wake it
with the touch of a finger,
or even a kiss. I must let it keep.
Tansu1
Trussed in lacquer, its sheen ripening
year on year, the tansu holds out....