Poems by Chris
Name
His name has been ghosted over the fence,
leaving an alias, burn, prison clothes.
I'm half the man, he says, not my sentence,
waiting on time that other people chose.
From their windows men sing out numbers, names,
hands to the grille light for the come-back call,
but words get lost, change allegiance, and blame's
out of their mouths, love's over the wall.
Later when I phone home and catch your voice
I think of slipping out to wind and rain,
to burning winter lights, and city noise,
to waiting on the platform for the train,
the slow bus climbing toward our terrace house,
and in that space, to reach you, say your name.
The Emergency Drill
*
We sat in the belly of the aeroplane
and held out for sirens to swerve across the grass;
men with cutting gear and masks. No-one came.
On a back seat, Mr. Phillips bandied jokes to pass
the time; the dark air cooling our arms
and scents like burrs stitched in hair, clothes.
In the distance we swore we heard alarms
before HQ radioed the fire-drill’s close,
and we emerged still feigning breaks and scrapes
led by teacher bandaged and bad at the hip,
attentive to this miraculous escape.
Our shadows thin creatures from the Mother Ship.
*
That view of Bob Phillips’ dance down the steps
comes back when I think of him alone
on the fairway, trailing scarves of breath
as he lugs clubs beyond the lake-side ninth for home,
and feels sharp tingles, then a rip-tide through his arm
that swells to pains across his chest.
To stand there, cry out above the calm,
and wait for hands, a touch – but Bob is destined
to collapse in thick grass, lie wide for the day
in a hide and seek open to everyone.
No-one for miles comes close to play.
His big face surprised the world is taking so long.
|
