Saturday, July 25, 2009
The Accountant Cries
On his solitary walks
he feels the air in front of him
searches for her soft arm
the smell of soap and roast lamb.
Her hands folded in her lap
even when she watched
the 6 o'clock news her hands
were stored competency
reserved for mysterious tasks.
At school he'd imagine her hands
(he loved the fine wrinkles
in the pads of her index finger)
he'd imagine them at school
as he learned to rule
exercise books in neat columns.
Pushing his tie more firmly
against the knot of his throat
he flicks imaginary lint from
the knee of his immaculately
crossed trouser leg and
He feels the air in front of him
the long breath of years
too frightened to leave his body.
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
I’m a water bird trapped in the bellows
of a piano accordion.
In my walnut brain
a migraine of box headed musicians thumps.
Love song, thud song, an incessant canto of
It’s a peaceful lie
that God can distribute love on my behalf,
wrap it in a clean tea towel, crush it with
a rolling pin,
then scatter crumbs
in a trail that doesn’t lead to me.
Appeared in The Press, July 2009:
Fern and the Sandman
I hung the words inches from her face
in a painted dirigible filled with
go back to sleep little girl
and blew it into her half closed eyes
we won't run away
just down caves
swimming with seal pups
into the convolutions of a shell
a chirruping kiss