Le Parisien

The blood of Paris blends into the Seine,
whose days have been flowing here to die.
I make room for what’s to come in, and then
spirit out of me, unstoppable as man’s strife.
In the end we get to the bottom of the root:
domes of this city are like scabs on flesh
bared by the bad thing. Inside the tube we go
through interiors of bone and then back again,
till we become that Parisian of forevermore.
People follow the cortège through streets
like blood cells in a vein to the body’s end,
then back again to the heart of our city; like
a pall bearer, blood also transfers the dead;
we are fidels who go to prayer, when the voice
of our imam from a minaret calls, or when
the church bell begins to toll, for subjects
whose heart of the matter has been abused,
though not enough for us not to know we mean
to come out fighting, to see this to the end.

When the fire dies down (image)

Winter

~for Khotsofalang

Surely our walk will soon be
a thing of past dreams,
given that since you left
there have been no options,
brother, for body or for mind;
and this park where you lie
holds no promise of release.
We sit listening to wind
slap the leaves of the oak
that grows on your grave.
To weed the mound, dig up
and chuck away dandelions,
tufts of tussock still stuck
to our memory, to hoe, claw
the surface with our hands
and water it with salt
is to accept the solitude
of your room. On a clear day
in winter one can see the tree
far off, gnarled in abscission,
reaching to grab heaven
by its lapels. Seasons come.
Wrapped in bark against
the chill, the tree homes birds
in its branches. Meanwhile,
throughout summer, its roots
drink the life of your blood
that clings to leaves floating
earthward on wings,
till once more winter brings
its blackest evening of ice.
------

(from 'Things that are silent', Pindrop Press, 2012)