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Winter 2005

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Learning to skate

Silent words shuffle into cautious lines
scoring ice with impermanent design.

You and the poem teeter alone
on the pond,          a balancing act -

arms outstretched, your red overcoat
smells of mothballs and smoke,

underneath one thick glove
a cigarette burn chafes.

Untried muscles tremble tied
to second-hand skates, you

enter yourself, settling into something
which cannot be named.

All roots and prayers left ashore,
words in mind gracefully align

with a strange sense of lightness,
nothing to hold.

Cold air from your nose
swirls in your throat – then

you turn, and          more or less
glide, half Degas dancer

striking out toward the centre.
The winter sunshine dazzles you.

A sort of Valentine

It is Valentine's Day.
Bad news all round.

Today, we discover
your transplanted bone marrow
is rejecting your body,

the men in white coats
call it Graft versus Host,
(as if that's supposed
to mean something.)

There is nothing I can do,
but wait and watch you
battle this out alone,
you are only thirty-two.

Today, there will be
no long-stemmed red roses,

no bottles of champagne.

the man upstairs

the man upstairs
is drunk again

day and night
I hear him
stumbling around
crashing into furniture
cursing his mother
he was ever born
his sixth stay in rehab
was up
last week

twitching carcass
in urine-stained tracksuit
he glares
glassy-eyed
defiant
at death
reaches for another
cold one

I wish he'd do it
quietly