history seekers

closed by the tombs
sand, mud, sung by the wind
slowly clothed by silks
the death song beats

the death song beats
in the marble
the death song beats
in the long thought out tomb
painted gold

the death song beats
in the shot out ungoverned squatter
the death song beats in the analysis
of the slow deconstruct
of paintings

the death song beats
in small, unnoticed passing

the death song beats
in the screaming of the undead

the ones without history
or seeming mystery
the ones unfree to fly
away

the death song beats
without help

Paris

Spat out, back muscles twisted,
from the stale saturated belly of a plane
numbed
fed into a Parisian past machine
fed out as a strand
to match their standards

a sudden shift
no red earth,
waking in the cold frosted farm night
blinking in the early morning quiet
a sudden grey humidity
constant motion
heavy air
queues everywhere

but a choice around every corner
the ability to think of no one but myself
no one to look after
walking
being
the forgotten ability
to just exist.

coma

let there one night
be a coma night
not a comma
breaking the night in half
aching with the jackals' laugh
a breaking full stop without half
losing my sleeping on my babies' behalf
a less heart rate
for want of a piano sated
sleep, granted
appreciated
in cold dog barking sated
night

Boshua Pass

Sometimes
when the ache behind my eyes
becomes too much
eyeball burning hot of the fireplace too close
diving into the depth of chlorine water
drowning on air
crying pressure
there is a place

There is a place
where wind never leaves
where no one lives
where the full horizon is a road leading to nothing but space
the grace of that mountain pass
steeped in second gear
higher than despair

Daily Routine

He keeps the car squeaking clean
polished to perfection like his glasses
and checks the handbreak many times
when he drives
when I was the young child
sitting next to him, hands folded,
relaxed in certainty
everything would be safe
there would be no unexpected mistakes
unafraid, I had the constant reminder of certainty
day by day and strength of knowing
this is what I can expect

I have become that person
with the daily routine
now,
I have the same need to know
that the fuel tank will never be below half full
that there will always be a set time
provision for the week, contingency tinged
these two little children
now
sit in the passenger seats
knowing
that this is what to expect.

Casualty Treasure Map

the ticking clock in triage
doesn't mean much
there is no guarantee
we wait

We hear her behind one of the many closed doors
patients only
crying


I have been here many times
waiting, and listening
but she is small and unprepared
and looking for her little sister

So we try to beat the ticking tock
we paint our nails purple
and drink pink milkshakes
pretending not to feel rocks in our stomachs
we look though First Words treasure hunt book
story time, spot two magic wands, and a mermaid,
a superhero and a map
she forgets how long we've waited
she sees only the colours and the details
tracing them, with her purple tipped index finger
I see dry earth in winter sunlight
not the white walls and wheelchairs
we are collectively, momentarily
apart from the tired of waiting, dark eyed making ward.