Sidney
Speaking
I
You
were always older than any of us expected,
sallow
since the first photograph;
hair
glowing translucent through the dimness and the dark,
red
curtains showing through the back of you
while
a sunset tries to flood the gaps between your bones.
II
I
heard your voice today
growing
into the room and rusting as it reached us.
You
would have loved to know, we said,
just
how much we’ve all grown
since
those old bones were flooded.
You’d
have loved to know
how
many of us have your brow or don’t.
You
didn’t crackle in the past
where
my mother sounded small –
you
were our giant, gently creaking,
and
would have loved to know.
Magnolia
Flies
are all over your living memory
and
you’re disappearing like a dot to dot in reverse.
I
play and reply what’s nearly your voice,
but
in truth it could be anyone’s.
It’s
just another part that couldn’t be photographed.
And
if I was the double of your lost daughter
I
wasn’t to know.
If
you’d left through the screaming front door again
you
might have been the one to brush my daughter’s hair
so
it wouldn’t pull.
Our
family might have made four of a kind
with
youngest and oldest oddly aligned,
but
fear of modern space and the noise that fills it
creased
your face until you felt it –
crossed
out crows’ tracks from each smile,
powdered
you magnolia pale
and
it was decided.
Mood
The
sea is not just a shade of blue
but
the cracked mirror of a monster.
In
this lasting mood
where arm spans muddle to make a truth,
where the yarn splits double
we
can be a little bit new –
hand
print on Earth’s most frozen mountain,
human
ash strewn over secret snows.
One
can never corrupt the other
because
the mountain has moved to marry the two.
In
this lasting mood
you
melt the wax onto the rare fabric
we
have found to live through.
Open
Windows or The Maximum
With
the weather almost finding itself,
the
rain always beside itself,
our
skylight’s been homing the night inside.
The
weather’s been dropping in like the friend
who
mistakes politeness for patience,
who
doesn’t know
when
there’s blind comfort to be found in code.
Each
morning is as old as all our yesterdays:
it’s
been eleven days since I touched your back,
sure
palm on safe plains,
lost
map between landmarks of shoulder blades.
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