Locus
By Kevin Graham
You ask for clarity so I set
a glass of water on the counter,
look at the clock and count
backwards from a hundred
with my eyes closed, listening
to you breathing very slowly
from a few feet away like a ghost.
I recall long forgotten things
like crawling into the bole
of an oak tree and drowning
in sky-leaves, their sound and sway
like water spilling over rocks.
When I open my eyes
you’re no longer there.
Lullaby
By Kevin Graham
Thunder in the night, gods
shaking the pillars of ordinary clouds.
All manner of speaking lifting
from the room’s close quarters:
stale breath, dusty carpet, curtains
going nowhere except the past
with its reek of Rothmans
when I press my face to her dress
to find out who she was.
Her Spanish guitar’s poised
like a magic trick – notes
fly from her fingers.
Photos wait in the oblivion
of dark wardrobes
like the hole where they’ve razed
our local to build apartments.
I hear her whine from the next room
like a puppy, lightning briefly
streaming through the cracks.
The flashback’s real as a horror
playing over and over.
She is small as a pumpkin,
curled up at the foot of the bed
sucking her thumb, talking
nonsense. I lie down and stroke
the back of her hair, whisper
all the nothing languages.
Arboretum
By Kevin Graham
The thumb-sized bee at my ear
sounds like a lawnmower
in miniature. I’m blocking
the sun with a leaf so its ribs
shine through. The blanket
underneath floats.
I wish I was here all the time
with you among the poplars,
getting round to the business
of living. Time sticks to our skin,
leaves a haze of green
where we flicker into ghosts.
Feeder
By Kevin Graham
You found a finch once
with an injured wing and lowered it
into a shoebox in the shed.
Animal-smell wafting among
the rafters, transforming
that box of air. It disappeared.
Lost down the corridor
of years and yet you cling on,
spy its flight from branch
to branch in buttery sunlight.
Backwards looks, the past
so still and lifeless. Finches,
chickadees, elemental sky.
The mind’s map flickers
like a wing. Time enough
to sit and wait for it, that you
might rise and go to where
it perches on spindly legs – afraid –
hold out a finger and weigh
its fledgling heart against your own.
Saturday
By Kevin Graham
Mountain ash, leaves turning
in the sigh from the sea.
We’re sick of wearing masks
and want to run like the stream
at our feet, eavesdropping
on total immersion.
We play Frisbee, cover each other
in cut grass as if we ourselves
might be growing out of it,
flowering in the midday sun.
Panic waits in the wings and yet
an inner wave stands for logic,
holding fear at bay.
We’re looking out for each other
in minutes that expire
like thoughts when news stops
and hype regresses into white noise.
Birds poke in the dark
looking for fruit, love’s riches
found in such small detail.
Loop
By Kevin Graham
The irreparable gnaws with its accursed tooth – Baudelaire
You push the glass door back
and step into clarity that drapes itself
without fuss over your shoulders.
The sky’s a pink and orange dream
throwing up chimneys, years
that have led to this point.
A light reprieve as the party hammers on
and smoke settles into pores
that can’t unlive the rented house
where sods burned and hail
drummed the roof like bullets.
There, he’s still breathing, his smile
spreading like frost on the pane.
The future coughs in the dark.
This icy remnant of love
is useless and yet you lean against
the pebbledash to think
without foreknowledge.
Back inside, he stands by the fire,
face half gold, half in shadow,
treading silence.
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Photo credit: Kevin Graham
