Linda King

those room-for-rent years


defeated by the real
you  have used-up all the exclamation marks
now you wear only textured shades of black

						what happened?
							what didn’t happen?

everything random


que the wrecking ball
there are no hymns left to sing

						those Sunday School mornings fade
								to fewer expectations

that child you were
will never mistake reality
for truth again


time dislocates from space
survivors will never speak your name
in a desolate pale defiance
of abstract truth    rooms
of wooden floors and candlelight
all beyond your reach

							beyond your ability
								to reclaim your heritage


you cannot
stitch yourself
into that frayed tapestry

							or hold a quiet
								like your name

there is no blood connection
your shoes are readied at the threshold

ghosts are a debt you owe

sort through
your collection of disappointments

								cold coffee mornings
								misplaced nouns
								ordinary buildings
								shoe shopping

there is no truth about truth
when black absorbs all the colours

some words demand a certain level of pain
a context shift    a holding still
like photocopied reality
or the palest phase
of the moon

that crag
where they found you yesterday
is a long way back
 								all fatigue and fade

today it rains cold comfort
the way a hot summer will grieve
a winter chill

call it possibility
or that common place
where ghosts are a debt you owe

what remains is one chair
one blue table    and you
falling over the cliff
of language

Linda King is the author of five poetry collections including Reality Wayfarers ( Shoe Music Press, 2014) and antibodies in the alphabet ( BlazeVOX Books, 2019) Her work has appeared in numerous literary journals in Canada and internationally — Streetcake, CV2, Event, Existere, Molly Bloom, Oxidant Engine and Otoliths. She has been nominated for Best of the Net and also for the Pushcart Prize.

King lives and writes on The Sunshine Coast of British Columbia, Canada.
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Blogger Unknown said...

Two brilliant poems! Tough, hard stuff leaving a little wiggle room for truth to squeeze through. You have my email but I don't have yours. I'd like it.

Charles Borkhuis

9:48 AM  

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