Poo Corner – Issue 19

Irony of category

that pushes a thumb through

the meringue

explaining the relief

of your thoughts no longer

being intercepted

by a wall accidentally close.

You evanesce between smiles and tears

your beautiful form defies disintegration

threatened in wildly hectic moments

smelling memories

that bleed into your ear

with frightening weight.

Any small stroke that tells you she’s gone

is like a knife slicing your heart

and you wonder how deep in time

the blade reaches.

Rolling and Tumbling

Van’s Moondance beating as hard as their hearts as they kiss in the gorgeous coiled spring sunshine.

Their lips run the whole scale of sensual saxophone riffs,

what a magic night they’ll have indeed;

their skin will burn brighter than the sun

warming the sheets, the table tops, the carpets,

negotiating the new equation that equals one.

They’ll scorch memories into the air

and snuggle until they mingle into one mess of love

moaning her and hymn to the silences they will pray they know entirely.

The previously searing sun disappears behind a cloud, humbled by their fire,

arms enwrap, hoping they are supporting and not gripping, holding so that secretive, singular and dissipating words do not escape from mouths intent on loving.

This temporary son of York awards them the Sundance Trophy for such beautiful love.

To Be Somewhere Near

Forgive this child his impulse

born of overhearing you vacillate

between function and grief in disintegration;

he wishes he was all grown up

so that he might proffer an adult hand

that you might squeeze in a paroxysm

of tremendous anguish.

He cries onto his balloon on a stick

when you endure the cruel wretchedness

of formally crossing out a life so full

of narrative energy; a human story so well

rendered that you, as mother, talk its

continuance to your own daughter

and a temporal bond of silken strength

is embroidered and its beauty renewed.

And we, as accidental acquaintances assemble

and eagerly wait for a role in your life drama,

hoping for a speaking part so we can tell you

of your beauty and how lucky we feel

at you having bumped into us.

This child finds one of your tears

and is fascinated by the wonderful colours,

he compares it to a soap bubble,

but doesn’t understand how long

the kaleidoscopic emotions will continue

to shift from rainbow to monochrome

at even the smallest twist or turn.

Forgive this child his ignorance

he’s a little in love with you

though I see his rationale

being drawn to someone

authentically beautiful.

One day I’ll teach him about grief

just as you have taught me

and perhaps he’ll instinctively know

how to offer appropriate support

to someone like you, so he’ll not play

with your sadness unless you desire them

to lubricate laughter and that we, he and I,

might be in that needed where for you

rather than merely accidentally near you,

at a necessarily punishing and painful distance.

If only his unknowing beaming could be

used as a strut to span the chasm

you cross, to make your journey in black less terrifying.

I call him selfish for not knowing that you have those you love around you that seriously reduce your falling.

He comes back to me puzzled and frightened

at witnessing your cruelly random fragility.

When you cry we both want to be in an alternate reality, one where we might whisper, contributing to a breeze that soothes your hurt and can carry words of succour in a voice you needn’t recognise.

I tell him oftimes, in this other space, how our absence is the best action we can take when such as you are overwhelmed by realisation of her absence. I explain sometimes it is best to be mere light when such as you are carrying the weight of darkness about in our alien landscape.

He and I smile when seeing you at all.

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