"..the insane clatter of silk as it fell
to the floor; stocking; manuscript or flesh"
– Wilson Harris, "The Waiting Room"
Evie on
Mondays wears something he might have liked, his office
rituals missed | the waist knot tug . hand to skin spark
find, slit ‘n’ tight fit needling.
If others prefer shape
shifts, coffee with cognac ~ fine! ~ fireflies can afford
to be moody; hang on one second.
Out on the ocean, mainsail limp . who would refuse a wind
brisk trader; the brush stroke horizon line so you could leap
dolphin like to shore.
Bad endings clog canals . oars parting
the past hard as belt marks on back.
Harder still, the faith keep . counting breath like on virus
wards | don’t act PhD dick heady, Nothing to do with me,
oyster du jour.
Week earning end, Evie’s train all heart ‘n’ arteries
into funnels form top Godspeed out.
No vein tap midnight
rush, flowers to vase complete | undress, unwrap
insert prints spirited off ring fingers; slide valves
heat ~ up burn pilots flare.
- W.W.
MARA
So why now her fond smile in his memory?
She used to jokingly call him mon semblable,
Mon frère, but now realizes that was more
Than third-hand sub-literary smartness but
A real recognition of Lessing as hers,
Belonging to her as her elemental
Hubris, her living shadow she was bound to crash through
And later value like the welts on her skin:
Lessing, her guy that got away, is the one
Blind man who has led her across death’s traffic.
(from “Charon’s Anchors” by Brian Chan)
FARJOURNEY CARIBBEAN 