I.
She tells me pain is like a fretful child - it only wants to be heard
it only wants to be held
here: you try.
and i, phone clenched
prepare to withstand its whimper
while her words course through me
the air swimming round and round the room
ears stiff, i wait.
a churning motion distant - a screaming silence strident
shhh, shhh. i am here. i am here. look, my arms outstretched. look, my nerves poised.
look. look: i am here.
it squirms in its sleep, then settles. the mattress sinks under its weight.
II.
gently i set the phone back in its cradle.
looking up at a ceiling of echoes, i
imagine what i might offer
a landscape of such high-pitched pangs
but subtle trepidations on calm clear waters
disquiet floundering, unchecked uncounted
imperceptible, my impressions would be
and lost, so lost
amid urns of sorrow never never endings unscattered ashes unmourned beginnings
from this dolorous deluge - what hand could emerge?
ah, but i am here. see? see? i am here!
and while Atlas shrugs off the earth
my embrace will salvage the tides
Sunday, 14 February 2010
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