..................................................................................................................................................
The Poetry Of.
Stephen Mead...................................................
This Is Not A Mine
Is it thunder, that rumble,
or more heaving like before?
How many days it has been
since the ceilings slid,
sealing this basement.
We were fortunate in a way.
At least here there are tins,
pickled preserves,
& my smart sister with her candles,
with her jack knife, who knew...
When the tremors started
she said it felt like a premonition
and hurried us, all of us, even the cat,
scratching while being dragged.
Later, we waited,
in fact are still waiting now,
singing songs, telling stories
to ward off the silences,
those claustrophobic coats.
How much air, time is left?
Did our parents survive?
What's it like up above?
Listen.
Again there's that shaking, dust
from the rafters, the baby crying and,
"Move to the wall!" My sister orders.
"Or the archway. It's strongest."
How can she do it?
My god, something's clawing,
cracking in---
voices,
a flashlight.
I thought I was too numb
even for these.
Urgency
Seduced me,
The music reaching veins, dopamines,
Violins in a rhapsody for the violence
I later dreamed as sirens repeating the rhythm
Of remembrance, the instinct of reaching,
Crawling across the trunk halfway to where help
Stretched, another hand, its suited sleeve,
Security that man an arm's length.
How helpless too he was
I later realized between the shots & the skidding
Car, a pinball machine's frenzy where my husband's
Shattered grace bled on, a font of scarlet,
Streaming streaks to lean that way, this,
& crumple against me.
Amazing I was not grazed
Except inside, an explosion of lasers
Constantly entering my poise, my voice,
The eternal shaking for assassins & conspiracies
I detach from like a graft whose tissues, invisible,
Nevertheless ask: how, love, why?
Waiter
Excuse me, please, really, I'm not. I mean, truly,
asking for so much. Not that greedy, am I? Only
there's these moths, see. No, the soup is great.
More wine?
Well, please. But waiter, wait. I...I know
what you're thinking...the d.t.'s....he's had enough,
better get out the nets.
Oh...oh now you're smiling, how lovely,
an apple, just bitten in, around it, the sumptuous
skin, an invitation.
Could you extend one?
I was wondering...'cause....'cause...
there's these moths &...little nations, see.
& if you could perhaps...
They seem to be drowning with...with threads
still on their wings as if..
as if they've just sprung from the husk &....
What? No. Here. Spooling about me...
Their sound, such laughter, music except...
except it's only their nature while mouths...
mouths in reality simply find grains...
that...that is if they're lucky.
No, this isn't a pass. Well, maybe later.
Only now, against the wind...broken...their bodies.
Yes, I've written the politicians.
And petitioned?
That too.
No, no, this is my last stop.
That's why I'm here.
Listen...help.
No, not me. Not me.
Let, let go. Alright, a doggie bag.
Thanks.
I'll send...
You're so kind. I...I mean waiter,
if not us, who else
will keep doing the saving?
