Vol 3 No 1 2009
Get Lost
I'm ironing my cool shirt,
the black one with sleek ivory stripes,
when my right wrist begins to shake.
Just a slip and I'd be scalded,
but that's not it, the crisis
is in amongst the muddled nerves,
hormones flashing at tear ducts
like toy ambulances. What's this
all about? The alarm clock of loss
went off before 6, surely I've
accrued some stealth, some heft, since then.
But loss it is, one hair too many
blown from my head, one great idea
sledding for a dark-ice end, one
word left dangling at the slam of
every sentence. It's not the done
deals that palsy me, the buried
parents, the scraps of youth, the old
collection of Beatles' cards
that vanished into someone else's
greed. No, the old griefs are slowly
arching into figurines, dust
collectors. It's this very moment
that's waving out, stirring up
distances too wide to cost, too
willful to calm. Bon voyage, good
riddance, get lost. My wedding ring
flies off my finger, an instant
UFO. Your love for me
spins inside out, a shrug of broken
bones. Someone not even born yet
shouts No!, my open mouth a begging
bowl. Shakes intensifying into
shivers, the iron hissing
in my hand, my shirt looking flat
and skinned. I'll lose this shirt one day,
time's dependable fray, which makes
me love it just a little less.
I'll lose the stripes, the pearly buttons,
the way the collar likes to strut.
Lose the energy, the hot cool,
the way the cotton adds my nakedness
to its list of accomplishments.
Barry Dempster