by Lorelei Bacht
He mocks me meek. I write in the margin
of books, a fish unhooked, glistening
on photographic plates, thick white
collars and plaids, they call
me close, me sick, me rose, me not
much to look at, if you should ask –
They do all the talking. How easy to
slide out of your own prescribed skin,
abandon kith and kin to the mediocrity
of everyday gospel, of politics, of pots
and pans, of kitchen sink gossip. No-one
has noticed my absence so far.
I sit at Sunday roast, I sit at tin biscuits,
I sit and observe those who talk, talk,
talk – I make a note: an idiosyncrasy,
a brick to build, an anecdote. Mostly,
I calculate fingers – they believe me
pious, limpid, not knowing the story
of why these white hands carefully
folded like handkerchiefs. Once, they
were damselflies – and I had ambitions,
a mouth for rhetoric, a morning walk
around the hill – the sky a sudden slit,
demanding I witness, but not forgive.
Catatonic Daughters 