confessions I - V

I

you are not dead – yet

in a thicket

less than one hundred acres dense,

i construct words to be said –

a self-congratulatory warmth;

i imagine the looks i get –

in my perfectly conjured church,

adjacent to the wooden casket,

tulip-shaped tears, a tremble in the voice,

a slant of sunshine that captures

the Kodak moment

II

my children, adults now

(so that i must adjust my expectations

up) occupy the stretched skin and bones

of those i hugged – the discarded husks,

eyeless sockets, toothless mouths,

gather dust in the shadows

of empty bedrooms

as the gate clangs behind them

i swallow, curse my silence —

lips sealed with the stone slab of fear —

imagine them, carefree, hands waving,

voices like laden bumblebees,

departing into lives receding from me

III

the wind catches the pegged sheet

makes it snap like a chained dog

at flies it cannot catch — i sit

on the tram

beside a stranger,

for no fathomable reason —

the seabed so far below fish

make their own glowing lanterns —

he must have adjusted his seating

seventeen times, and in the secret barks

behind my silence lurks the violence

between uncommon foes

who share no reason, only holes

in the clay where hands

should have smoothed the lumps

into sustaining shapes

the jiggle of the tram regularly makes shoulders

touch – as if the tram seeks to dislodge

vengeful convulsions, witness its unveiling,

watch the outcome of two people

unleashed – unable to read,

i stare at the reflection captured,

me and the stranger sitting on the tram,

they unaware

their downfall is plotted

before one of us disembarks

and the imagined spilled blood

pools and vanishes into the cesspool

of unrequited acts hidden beneath city streets

IV

the cricket rubs legs with a vigour

to match my stupidity

but vigour is never a match,

stupidity is the unlatched door,

everything in

everything out

instead of heeding the cricket’s advice,

act like a little devil,

a begrudging smudge that lessens

the whole without intention —

fly to the stench with an eager intention

that ruins the delicate balance

my nails wish to scratch,

and the more the mind

tries not to think

the more the itch grows,

on edge teeth clatter...

believe they are mandibles

but worse is the heart —

a canker able to forestall memory

where lessons like apples dwell —

the heart is the worm that undoes the skin,

undoes everything

in acts so petty –

remorse is the sound that remains

after the trumpets have sounded

outside the walls of Jericho

V

lies emerge from the cocoon of lips,

With baited breath

flitter like white butterflies

into open ears especially —

unlike flowers who close up

shop, dream of legs

and stamens and things that fly

transporting them into the future

— at night

lies have sticky legs, steal

incorporeal grains

that cannot be held,

are rarely spoken of,

yet without them we grow insubstantial —

though truth be told it is as much

about holding on

to the corresponding undefined parts

as it is stealing precious grains from you

i lie therefore i am and in the deceit,

grown like a beard to hide the face,

i recreate the fearful child

for childhood

is the greatest white lie

ever told

in innocence

childhood presents itself,

the eternal path forward

that weaves through hills and forests

created to wander through

or to pause beside a river

and think that reflection is eternal

the old man knows;

sees his reflection, how it is not him,

not the face he expects every morning —

no matter how the preparation,

the shock is always the same

how did it come to this

where have i gone

try to reconcile that face

with the image held

the way the bee carries pollen

from place to place