Iain Britton

 

Transparency of the Word

 

It’s about one man

born and bred in captivity

 

somewhere between the person I was

and the person I am. He’s a

 

walker of galaxies, a loner, an

unpaid healer of others

 

who’ve screwed up their buckled

and bent lives. I

 

met him once on a city street

heading east

 

following a mountain range

heaped up on the horizon

 

picking weeds from gardens

and searching for the silence

 

of a woman. A woman, he

knew intimately

 

like the transparent flesh of a word, a

woman whose breath

 

whispers from the desert, whose body

shifts loosely

 

insubstantially, whose face is a mirage

of something spectacular to touch. He

 

chooses to pick up shattered pieces of

thoughts left over by people

 

like myself on the move. He

chooses to be housed in the moist

 

spaciousness of this woman, to be

rejuvenated, a man

 

who believes in doing what’s good and

good only, in doing

what others want to hate. I’ve

seen this in him before, seen the

 

stones thrown at him, had a go

myself at smashing down the

 

bugger’s dependency on her. I’ve tried

garrotting him with his own

 

meticulously braided ropes of

light, but he always wins. He has

 

learnt to fall asleep with the sun

clicking like a metronome in his ear.

 

 

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Sentinel Poetry (Online) #43  - June 2006. ISSN 1479-425X

The International Journal of Poetry & Graphics...since 2002. Editor: Amatoritsero Ede

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