Stains

Stains

History, herstory;
Which of these would you be first to heed?
And which story would you prefer to read?
If I’m thirsty and cold, will you furnish me
With a purse with which to feed me furs and tea?
If I’m first to leave, will you hire a hearse for me?
And a furnace to fire and burnish me?
If it’s a mystery that murders me,
Will you put my name to a bursary,
So that that name –
Which I’ve taken pains to explain –
With which I’ve lost as much as I’ve gained
Might echo like the ripples on the surface of a lake
From the touch of a single drop of rain?

Might remain?

I search desperately –
I’m obsessed, you see –
For a medium through which to make the best of me.
No mean or median or mode for me
Because I know that’s not what was meant for me;
I was sent to be something of density.
Hard-hearted people use the word “destiny”;
But I’m talking of a sense in my intestines, see:
Not sense and sensibility,
But the worth that this earth
Might make from the dearth
Of the matter it hasn’t yet rent from me.

These concepts, I know, are only lent to me;
Neither my story nor your story
Will suffice to entice
Any more glory
From a path
That is math;
That is poor, hoary,
Hurried and worried and wild;
That’s the sighs of a sage and the tears of a child.

We’re just stains:
Breath on the wind
And piss in the drains;
Electrical impulses
Pulsing through brains:
Fragmented memories
In shades of grey –
Ash in the ocean,
Bones in the clay,

Just stains:
Blood on the flagstaves,
Rust on the chains;
The tide takes the sand,
The moon waxes and wanes:
Silhouettes of fleshy shapes
On fanciful thrones –
Recipes for worm food
Chiselled in stones.

 

Appears in:
Rhymes for all times [2015]

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