The Journey Inward (Body Time No More)
From that which refuses my moth, I replace my hands.
From that which instigates the winter storms of my eyes, I open
an ear.
On the pillow, a spot of snail blood, spittle of the vanish auk.
Where my left ear had lain in the moist warm, all noise of the world
was muffled.
Draw a bath of lightly caressed playing cards.
Ask me for the king of clubs, the jack of night sweats.
There is a place in my heart even I have not touched with
diamonds.
Try if you must, but know that—in extreme quiet—you too might
get quashed.
A divide opens up along the shelf of Antarctic ice.
On one side of the deck, it is cold. On the other, cold.
I do not speak any longer in ice moths or in irreparable twos.
I will not solve the dichotomy of this winged pain, even with an
obstinate mouth.
Nor will I salve my own blue-bolstered bruise with dream talk and
shame.
I am not talking time any longer but a continental drift of ice
diamonds, devoid of the clutch of a kind hand or mouth.
_________________
George Kalamaras
That Moment of Wept
SurVision Books (Ireland)
2018
