The Present

Douglas Reid Skinner

Can I open it now? the boy asks his mother,

who holds his free hand in hers as they walk

away from their Hodges Street home and along

the edge of the Green, to the birthday party.

They stand at the door and wait to go in.

Inside they can hear all the boisterous boys.

No, it’s not one for you, she whispers to him

through a smile that he will recall for as long

as his memory goes on serving him well,

for as long as he remembers every so often

to stop what he’s doing and ponder a while,

let the tool in his hand dangle unused

or the half-peeled vegetables wait in the sink

while he sits and thinks his way through the years,

getting smaller and smaller, his trousers shorter,

until he can see his mother still standing,

standing again in the dress with bright flowers,

the cloud of perfume that reminds him of meadows…

to stop and remember them back on the porch,

back in the sunlight and quietly waiting.

In his hand is a present wrapped in blue paper,

in the other, her hand that makes him feel safe,

the hand that she waved as she went down the steps,

the hand he will hold at the moment of death.

They stand on the porch in afternoon light,

the present grows heavier and heavier in his hand.

He knows that the door will open to darkness.

Again and again, he doesn’t want to go in.

Featured on 4 November 2021

Selfish

Lethokuhle Msimang

There are a number of ways to be selfish, some of which you may never have known. Like each time you chose not to impose, that was really quite self-involved. Love is imposition; it is the thin line between force and willingness. You cannot love if you do not impose; you cannot find such a place on your own. I’ve only noticed the things I’ve run into – the things which caused me to pause or change course. So impose yourself and your eagerness, impose your heart and its wrath. Do not exhaust me with considerations. I don’t want a mirror, I want a rock. It will be in the silence of my agreement, it will be in the audacity of your brute force, that we may finally be unselfish – that we may find ourselves and find love. Featured on 28 October 2021

Sounds in the shower

Jean Watermeyer, after C.J. Driver

Sounds in the shower--

water falling inside four walls

constructs, in the corners, noises shaped somehow by

thought, or by the wifi - full of news:

first and always, the stainless steel drain ricochets the cries

of my baby waking and calling for me,

though I know from experience he is still sleeping

and I should know by now the sound is too soft,

a dream of crying that could also be

the shouts of rioters, or weeping;

the electronic sounds of a hospital ward - feet, conversations outside the door

a woman in labour

far away;

the sea; the man who sleeps in the subway and shouts in the street;

the gate opening, though nobody is expected;

a door opened without a key;

rats in the ceiling, mosquitoes in the dark.

I have the taps set just right and I stay,

turning to keep warm,

practiced at ignoring.

Featured on 21 October 2021

First published on my blog: http://dawndrawn.blogspot.com/