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Son of Light

Home > No. 12 > Texts

Death Awaits Within, My Lord
                                    —Bipo, 1541

Dark the son of Light
                                    —Isidro's Tools of Melancholy

1

Death

he goes knocking why not
this door that door this one
is sweet also
I like the look
of the whole town here's
another inviting entry
why not stride right in but}
(oh, I'm so tired) kerchoo
I must be coming down
with something it has been
a long day a long night is
that dawn I see flashing the hill
oops maybe tomorrow let me flit
that cat as I pass by
for the practice
you know look
at that cat run
I think I must need
a doctor

2

Death Said What?

I wanted to go
but my mind wouldn't let me

Go where?

To the dance
but mother said I was too young

How young were you?

Four I was four I was four
I think she said I was four which
was much too young she said so
I must have been four

Please no more of those long replies

Okay

Thank you

Yer welcome

What was that?

What?

That 'yer' business

It wurrnay nothin'. She wurra wee dark-featured
pelly wis ma mither. She wiz gaein' oot doll'd up
each night, got that appointment book like ye might
know. Blap, there gaes the cat.

What are you saying?

I was a wee wean four years old. They could hiv covurred me wit a sheet or somethin'. I could see them dancin'.

Where?

Across the field
a thick haar it was

How many?

Were dancing?

Yes

Four hundred

That's a handful

Some I counted twice
I was clever I could
go up to a thousand using my tables

Pardon me?

They said they were my tables
I'm not bragging

No you were a little four year-old
pissant wanting to go to the dance but
your mind wouldn't let you this
had fuck-all to do with your mother

Now yer mad

Not that much I'm just tired
of being led around by the nose

Later on I went to a dance my first
dance it wasn't that terrific

Who took you?

I took myself I was able

You didn't enjoy it?

Not that much

Why not?

None of your business

I'll keep at it until you tell me

No you won't

I will too

If you do I'll cry

Fine by me tears in crackly old
faces they turn me on no end

You're mean I don't like you

This is for your own good

Nothing I've ever done
was for my own good

So that's why you cried?

When?

At that dance you mentioned

I never went to no dance
it was all in my mind
it was pure hell

You should have liked that

I wasn't in the mood
to have a good time

No one is four years-old forever
you know

Says who

Says me

Says who

Says me

It's to be like that is it?

Nay if ye dance with me. Will ye dance?


This is an excerpt. To read the rest, please continue your travels in the Republic by purchasing No. 12, Fall 2003.

Leon Rooke's bio is forthcoming.



©2007 News from the Republic of Letters All rights reserved.

 

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