23 March 2014

Flags in a tiny hot country


               by Kim Moore

Last weekend I feel in love with the bathroom,
its clean white tiles, the towels hanging like flags
in a tiny hot country, this place that caught you,
that stopped you from falling from the earth.

Blank-faced, it tells no tales, won't give up
the secret of how you went from standing
to stretched across the floor, your feet
at its northern border, your head to the south,

your eyes rolling, wild as a horse, your body
an empty house abandoned to the wind and rain.
When I life your head, there's no resistance.
It moves like water at the bottom of a tilted bowl

Was it my shouting that made you surface?
Slowly, slowly you returned, the bath (faithful
creature) in the same position as when you left,
the sounds you made so far from words,

you brought another language back with you,
the hotel quiet as a church, you didn't know
the body you were in was yours, blood leaked
from your mouth and gathered on your chin,

the sink and toilet impassive and standing guard
and you remembered nothing of your journey,
minutes of your life deleted, and only this room
to witness this passing, and I can only guess

which loving object tried to catch you, which voice
pulled me from my sleep. I kick the bath -- it answers
in a low familiar tone. I stamp -- the floor bellows
its reply -- the room beneath echoes like a drum.

TLS 2/28/2014

No comments:

Post a Comment

No Anonymous comments, please.