. . . in the mi —

— ddle of the red hot words
that flared between us that
warm Indian summer afternoon
haunted by the oh-so-thin parchment of
my mother softly twisting deep
in the pyramid close by father’s sarcophagus

I remember the heat and the
thought that had invaded me:
unlike spring
all blues and greens and coming to life —
not the pastel hues of the
sterile scrubbed halls
downwhich caught in a dry raspy
shallow railing twisted knot
I could hardly bring myself to visit
my mother was in freefall —
fall is ochres and wine reds
and departures and death

This seemed to be death
death of romance
a death replete with kids
and arguments over money
and war and peace and toothpaste
and nickles and dimes and a
chipped tooth and socks
piled in dusty corners
that were suddenly my turn
to vacuum and grow up over
and the words were pinching like
death in a sock: a blister that
was beginning to fester
right in the mi —

— ddle of that right there
just at that precise instant
while bruised berries were fermenting
on the soft bed of just slowing
blown strumpet flowers and squirrels
were panicking and fretting on thin twigs
lecturing each other on the louring skies
and watching in paranoid pixillated
everything over their shoulders
and birds were rehearsing
the long flights to come
geese serious in high formation
ravens congregating in swirling
shredded pointilistic clouds
high above the highest trees

right there in that moment
just between you
and “you”
and a threat
of tears —

A colossal crash

— stopped the words
stopped my heart —

I rushed outside
you followed
clutching your apron

I was gnawing on adrenaline
that lept me all five steps
onto the front walk

What is it?

We looked at the window
There imprinted dead centre
in the middle of the tickytacky picture window
was the dust haloed outline of a large bird
wings outspread like a paraclete
neck turned aside


Dead in the bushes below
a pheasant

drunk on berries
they do that

Inside the house the phone was ringing

We looked at each other
the sunlight caught your frazzled hair
just golden in the moment
Something flooded into the day
that had not been allowed before

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About riverwriter

Poet, playwright, duplicate bridge player, website designer, cottager, husband, father, grandfather, former athlete, carpenter, computer helper for my friends, theatre designer, backstage polymath, retired teacher of highschool English, drama, art, a baritone singer in a barbershop quartet, who knows what else? wordcurrents is on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/wordcurrents/ Doug also has a Facebook page, "Incognitio", related to his novels.
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