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first published in Matter 2,
Matter Magazine, 2002
Sentence
Names were the first dropped
stitches of self
in her unravelling, so he
peopled all
her sentences with guesses and
she laughed,
but left more and more
half-said, as the cells
unlocked, unlocked in her
emptying head’s whimsical
slow paroling of words, and then
the questions,
asked and answered endlessly
-
“Where’s Jim ?”
“I’m
Jim.”
“Oh yes
!….. Where’s Jim ?” –
and what hurt most,
her long wordless howls and her
silences,
for she was leaving him,
slipping through gaps
in herself while he cleaned
shit, undressed and dressed
and tea-spooned life through
slack, unwilling lips,
coping still and murmuring his
name,
hoping for that as her last
word, when it came.
Don Barnard
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last
update:
e-mail
Don
and in
the
shop
...
collection -
"Growing
Old Disgracefully";
pamphlet -
"Menorah",
Semicolon Press
anthologies -
"Ten Hallam
Poets",
Mews
Press;
"Perhaps",
Cinnamon
Press;
"Broadside
X",
Cannon
Poets;
"Obsessed
with Pipework 6 & 7", Flarestack
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