Sunday, 8 July 2012

Fanning a fire

Cold, I step down from the porch,
the mist, heavy as the years -
those bleak maggots that gnaw the bones
while the flesh, jester organ, remains free from the stains
Unless you count the loss
of elasticity or the wrinkles
that stand in the place of my childhood.

The axe, blunt as an adolescent cock,
bludgeons wood
into thin strips for the ritual
of newspaper, layered kindling
and matches.

She’s been gone 3 hours on the road that winds
between rolling green breasts the cows
wander in the morning mist, filling their udder
for our milk.

I pretend a calm by lighting the fire -
sit reading the same few words of a novel while
my mind twinkles with thoughts -
twisted metal,
broken bones and immobile heart
for the evening headline.

I wander the empty house, growing
to hate her
and my journey into fear, the hate
a camouflage greater
than any chameleon trick.

The phone rings -
she’s landed safe.

I feel damned distant
as if the imagined
has opened and emptied the contents
of the present.

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