Friday, 30 January 2015


[Waiting for Charlie]
Hannah Watts

Ph speaks to me about truth & essays.

He tells me to own the I

build Babel. But my tools are scattered

mouthful vital soils.

I exhume Plutarch with my tongue while 

we chat about identity over coffee.

He hunched in Leffler Peace Park, eyes dilated, children sipped from his lips.

I tried to imitate his gaze and my father called me—

Gréagóir pulls me to his chest, arms ignited

I burrow in embers

Manitoulin river rock sunset

he clings to me like Charlie, sinking rib-deep

breathless he takes shots shots shots

my fingertips graze smouldering shoulders.

Deathless, I ride single breasted into the breath of Achilles.

But I am thin. I hide behind trees, torchless on the edge of seas.

I pronounce my time of death 

and engagement 

I wave my hand to display the ring.

Poets are not liars because we never claim truth.

I feel old when I should feel brilliant. 

This is an intimate conversation.

No comments:

Post a Comment