He had it done on a whim
he told us, just before his spell
in Doolally.
Home from the war
he lived with the regret –
no matter that we loved it.
Days at the beach he’d sit
with his shirt on, or lie forever,
his back to the sand.
It was a work of art
that began at his waist
and wound its way up
around the trunk
of a palm tree
and ended where we could see
its blue arrow tongue
flickering
at the nape of his neck.
BRASS MONKEYS
My mother’s dusters flap –
tiny yellow sails above the cabbages.
Inside everything sparkles
like a wedding ring dipped in vinegar.
Ginger cat hairs, angel cake crumbs
the family’s fingernails banished into thin air.
Bring in the washing!
Next door’s mongrel’s on the loose.
Pegs are flying.
Jesus, Mary and Joseph! Fetch the broom!
Too late. The tail of Dad’s shirt’s
wrapped round its rubbery tongue.
What’s skin made of?
I’m staring into the pink ear
of my baby rabbit.
Before anyone can answer
it’s leapt from my lap
into a wigwam of sweet peas.
Faster than a blue-arsed fly,
she told Dad later
over Vesta chop suey and rice.
It’s not fair, just as the princess falls
in love with the genie, I’m packed off to bed.
Neither is a black man’s bum, says Dad
as he tucks me up in stiff white sheets.
All night the drone of voices drifts through
the floorboards stinging my ears like bees.
AMERICAN WAKE
seventeen miles from Skibbereen
I listen for my grandfather’s
by God I’ll make you skip boy
sing-song voice.
At the farmhouse table
where he might have planned
his American dream,
I trace the wood as if I could find
the whorl of his fingerprints
somewhere in the grain.
Then in a tin box I see
the photograph –
his flock of children left
to fend like babes in the wood.
And the tales my mother told me
that once seemed as distant
as another planet,
flash the room – whiting her eyes
like lightning on a star starved night.
CROSSFIRE
It hasn’t moved for months.
It knows its place – on top of the dresser
facing the door.
Arum Lily
the Afrikaans have a name for you:
Varkblom
Pig’s Ear
no wonder you poke out
your yellow tongue.
Calla Lily
one day you will be caught
in our crossfire.
Someone will wrench you
from your terracotta pot
and hurl you to the floor.
Names will fly.
Fists flail.
My Little White Hood
I will remember you
mute and beautiful –
bite
my tongue.
arrived a few days later
a bright yellow pansy
on my right arm,
then it disappeared.
Eventually
I threw away the clump
of hair.
Now there’s nothing
left to show –
no cause for alarm –
except for something,
somewhere there’s this:
a small persistence,
a faint hiss of tears.
BRONZEFIELD
Sounds like a place that once
was torched
by the breath of a god
but more likely it was built
on a field of corn
this building with high red walls
where you’ve finally
been netted
my mutant butterfly.
When I come to visit
they search my mouth.
THE ZOO KEEPER’S SONG
I could watch them for hours
Esmeralda and Zola
strolling up and down
on legs as long as stilted circus clowns.
With my daily offerings
of lettuce, radish and grape
I enter the enclosure
run my hand over
the primitive patchwork skin,
watch how they flutter their eyelashes
like two actresses
in an old time movie.
When I come back
I want to be the leaves
on the tallest trees.
I want to be devoured
by those magnificent tongues.
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