Four Poems

Time Keeping In A Parallel Universe

Our ancestors
had no bus stops
train stations
or departure lounges

but that didn’t stop
the hairy ones—
they knew how
to say goodbye

they knew how
to bury their dead
depending on
Neolithic regulations

a goodbye kiss
might have been
permitted although
generally no

but let’s not drag
all the deaths in history
into this poem
about one beautiful death

his kin demanded
the ritualised laying
of bones, hair and skin
the burning of paper

in the back garden
and after kissing
the cold marble skin
his kin dragged

their own bodies
to the top of a hill
and screamed
their unlimited screams.

Unprepared

I’m not ready
for your death
I didn’t say goodbye
I only said I loved you
on the phone
You said God Bless
and he blessed you
in your quick departure
from this world
but Dad, for God’s sake
I’m not ready
I’ll never be ready
for your death.

The F Word Becomes Integral To The Grieving Process

Now the fact of uncontrollable crying
now the uncontrollable feeling
that everything has been swept into the sea
that everything has fallen to the floor
and there’s no getting up
the eternal fragility
the futile finished grand finale finito
fa la la and so long long long farewell
and fare them well wherever the fuck they are
and fare you well with this final irrefutable
infinite finite they’ve gone you’re fucked fact.

I See Him

Four women in a cold April wind
leaning into each other
keening over a weird gibber desert
of pot holed small town streets
and there shining on the corner
a small brick house

four candles burning
a huge bunch of artificial flowers
light brown carpet
two white bibles on a table
the words too small to read
these are the details you remember

I notice the thermometer on the wall
the door’s thick handles
the untimed silence of the dead
I enter the room and there he lies
hands clasped and odd
I kiss his golden head

the face of a hundred different places
I touch his bristling beard
I talk softly to his long still legs
to his long thin feet
I slide my hands carefully under the lace
and slip two books on to his chest

I sit on a chair
I watch my hands fold and unfold
I try to remember his voice
I listen for words in the silence
an hour later I see
nothing has changed.