POEMS
Killarney Clary
UNTITLED
Someone else. And the empty time, now, in all I gather and
promise. I think I can stop losing by a conversation I will have. I
cross my fingers to break a habit. Where did I get those lavender
sachets; where is Helen now.
The light and time move through the day together; I clear them
from all the things around me, clean them until the receding and
coming-up are mine. They re-form as annoyances. Where did I
put that. When was the last day.
Across the cold beach, Helen and I walked toward the rocks. Up
to
see the sunrise.
It
would be light for hours before we saw the
sun itself come over the cliffs. But it was too early to talk about
anything. Neither of us would have been there alone. Back in the
city, Helen walked from her house to mine in the summer and
when I opened the door she didn't seem relieved. She wouldn't
drink any water. She would stay for only a few minutes. Tired
and hot. Sweat and the powdery dust from the streets and dull
leaves-on her pale, fat arms and legs, on her damp shift.
It
wasn't Helen but the things that seemed to become bored with
me. The way her skin and hair were things. So I remember all
that in the worst times. When I'm surrounded and have no fear
and no regard, across years of waiting I draw my rehearsed
exchange. Would you undermine it, Helen, for the best, for now.
