Excursion, in the Year of Unmaking
Hoping to descend
from the year of unmaking –
we went, that evening,
for a walk. In the park
there was a house, burnt
in demolition. Don’t
look at it – my mother said. Like trumpets,
the flowers were crowing. The petals,
this evening gold: as the stagnant water
pools like tarpaulin,
ripped taut. Her glassy eyes
drooping. Her wrists
of ripped allergies,
fall risks. The bands. How the dust
spreads, this year
of unmaking. A chorus
therapy-bleached – the pills,
the afternoon kitchen strained,
swirled in dust. She in wisps. She
in curved fading. A ladle,
a pill-knife – as the metal hoarding
grimaces. Her skin strains
its warning. Keep away,
keep away. And another man
slowly turns: his evening that erupts
into welding sparks. The ropes,
the strands fraying. A gaunt harness,
rustled with leaves. He hopes too, to descend.
Visiting My Mother, After a Storm
Walking together the morning after
the storm, we saw a tree, felled
by lightning, now seized
by ropes. Watch out
for deadfall, the sign
cries – as a young boy
grimaces, apologetic: his face
rust-scaled, the acne
of a sign bent, shredded
with the leaves.
Would we all –
you begin. The carcass of the
tree lies covered
in a dew-slathered
sheet – as the green thickens,
pools: the flattened patch
of grass. This dew springs
as mourning. Would we all
be like this. You were told,
when younger:
never to cry. Never
be caught in weakness.
This fear – as your arms
rooted to stems of iron. The men
collect the shards. This wood,
the shattering. How strange
to later see a yellow truck,
a flightless bird: ready, trussed
for devouring. Back later
on morning television – we hear
reports of sudden rains. The floods.
I saw the water clinging –
the beads, the glassy rims:
as the milk of those eyes
bloom like weeds, chased
from their stalks.
Would we all
be like this. Mid-morning, a shadow
overtakes tree, then branch.
Then the ripped leaves. Then no one.