Again and Again You Leave and Other Poems

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    Again and Again You Leave and Other Poems

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    Again and Again You Leave

    Breathe.

                               Another war

        has broken the night

                                           in two.

    The cracked moon-

      light

                is smashed glass all over the table.

     

    I never asked you to walk into the sea.

     

    Five minutes to eleven

                    the war crackling like burning wood

                                             in our throats,

               smoke punching the ceiling

                            from our mouths

    our mouths two fists

                         locking lips

                                      so we breathe

                       in, out, in, the taste of blood

            drowning out the fire.

     

    Did I say We

                        breathe?

                                          What I meant was

                    I stuck the tip of my tongue

                                     into my bloodied cracked tooth

                searching for the taste of you

                                                        the taste of war

    the war between the tick of the clock

                 screaming don’t leave

                              & the tock stopped dead on five minutes to eleven

    but

                                   you left

    when I pleaded to you

                            stay

     

    It’s only chunks of moon-glass

    shattered like your bones

                                         upon the rocks.

    Returning

    Waiting to Return

    My father never leaves his corner anymore.
    His chair & ass have become one, married fifteen years.

    He just sits & smokes, listens, smokes, eats, smokes.
    The clock has giving up & died.

    The Earth, breathless from passive smoking, now
    stands still, unable to race around the sun

    while he grows old, oblivious to the hour of day.
    He just sits & smokes, eats, smokes.

    He dreams of fishing beside the canal
    with the wind in his face & rain in his beard.

    He anticipates the day he can return to the place
    he feels content. He waits staring towards the window,

    remembering how he use to fish; his hand clutching the fishing rod,
    the maggot with a hook through its head, the slow water

    harmonizing the reeds, the passing swan, the thrill of a fish
    taking the bait- the impeccable sound of absence.

    He yearns to be there. He is so close. For now, he just sits
    & smokes, eats, smokes, listens, smokes, waiting to return.


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