by Kate Jordan
-
- I
sitting in a sense
on a chair
which corrects my back.
apparently.
waiting for one,
he'll be back soon.
a few hours, that's fine.
waiting for the other,
he'll be home soon.
a few months, that's ok.
waiting for all to catch up.
a few seconds, a few years.
seeping in a sense,
slowly in a mind that's free.
apparently.
II
the final conversation uttered
uncomfortably sitting cold by the canal.
had stopped to breathe and smoke,
waited behind the others.
'funny talk-strange talk'
i stole your words, i repeat them.
did you know that?
no. maybe you forgot them.
they weren't for me,
'just an exercise.'
you wrote how i smoked
a few drags then returned,
you took that from me.
cold.
creative.
always walking away.
'not on these terms'
i could have said it too.
you had no upper hand,
you hallucinated a man in a doorway,
as a real one pissed across from us
into the canal.
they cracked our broken talk.
or was it me?
replaced with current affairs,
'bush wants immunity to kill'
and i sat powerless.
III
'things might be easier this way'
of course, nothing's changed for me.
i'm still screaming!
i'm just not saying anything.
words are all we have
but they shift, disguise, and disgust.
they rarely speak.
words failed us.
words silenced what may have been.
stripped of place and time, some still ring in my ears
until i hear nothing else.
still the words don't hold out.
it's the calm cool half light,
the shock of accidental affection,
the easy light awkward stance.
the breathless shiver...
(I don't miss it, it's alright.
Just go. Goodnight.)
- I
