Angela Arnold, In | Between

Ghost

He did, you say, he was - and pat the corner of the table cloth

as if to smooth the smallest memory crinkle flat, brush

something trivial away.

He used to, you say, but there he is: peering over your shoulder

in his old uniform, emphatic chin, expensively framed.

The sun glints on his first glasses as you speak,

nod, rake gently through his past: titbits to offer the visitor.

You pour him out with the tea,

this ghost. Serve him proudly

with the biscuits. No more than a mumble

about yourself.

Your health (oh, that) clattered over with the cups and

saucers, needless spoons, just clearing away.

And then the door goes and there's the bent-over, the unframed

version. With the now much thicker glasses. 'Visitor?' and he

enters with a rawness of presence honed over decades

of thin marriage. – I can only watch you pale

and pale further from view, go quietly greyscale

till I can no longer imagine you'd ever, rudely, eat – never

mind snatching a quick mirror image

on the way out.

Further details

John Bartlett, Eschatology

terror & beauty

         (after Rumi)

the weight of a life

is an incomplete journey

a cup cracking with no warning

a chair tottering on two legs

a stranger

on a sun blasted hill

above a foreign city

sea in the distance

as you leave behind

this terror and this beauty

the very air slams shut

behind you the way water does

the very memory of you

          no more as

you enter the world of

          no place no time

          a feather

          a fugitive

this fleeing soul

Futher details

Karen Poppy, Diving at the Lip of the Water

Spa Pass

At Spa Montage,
I pass through
I pass.

Buffed
Shined, polished
& perceived.

I pass. My gender
A mirage.

Ladies’ Lounge
Fresh water
Tropical fruit.

In their eyes, I display
As woman, wahine.

Here, binary
Of gender, only
Two rooms.

Invisible in this
Locker.
The only way.

Also, the only way out
To the pool.

Men, women
Lounge,
Sunbathe.

I dive in.

Further details