FIRST TALK OF THE VIRUS
pub talk and rabble
spills onto the loneliness of roads.
she’s careful in stilettos.
a dog yaps at her heels,
as she steps between, among the cars.
there’s talk of a virus—
that’s the first Ive heard of it.
the signage of the city flares,
half-lit, beaming its convenience
as true darkness descends.
Marcus Ten Low
CHESS CALENDAR
a sample of what my life looks like (in calendar form)
white square = day
black square = night
Marcus Ten Low
MY FAVOURITE U.S. POET TELLS ME HE OWNS A GUN
inspired by Don Thompson (reportedly living near Buttonwillow)
It’s a long story,
He says. And it is, I want to listen
To it all. I lie in bed
Restlessly tugging at my small pillow to soften
My big head, and picturing him still seated
At an oak table this late in the night:
Looking stately, shape-shifting
His words on the page to create his latest verse.
(Such an accomplished master, and yet---
Somehow—)
I’m receptive to the slightest sounds,
It could go bang. I clutch my feet
Rubbing my hands, and earnestly thinking
What to respond. It’s a “shooting gallery”.
Ninety birds twitter
In my mind, all potential targets for his firearm.
Belligerent, yet dolefully large-eyed,
I cry, and rock myself to sleep.
Marcus Ten Low
MY PALESTINIAN FRIENDS
I draped my room in my flag of Palestine,
Not knowing I was carrying the weight of broken children too,
Disappeared limbs, parts of limbs,
Crying the seeds of tears, their clothes ragged and ripped,
Their loves parted from the places they called home.
I sat these children up like fragile dolls, among the broken
Buildings, half-exposed interiors, finding somewhere to sit,
Or struggling forward in a mobility device.
Never did I see such love, such care,
The bitter need for hope and strength, the smile of bravery.
I watched the night descend, only to feel the shocks
Of bombs blasting here, there, everywhere. I stared hard
Into that madness, filled with the courage of my heroes,
Though the Earth below did quake,
And people rushed between walls, escaping nothing.
The entire world did see what happened,
That night, and every night, dulled to the sound, the fury,
The attrition that we felt, feet planted in the dust.
The entire world did see, and I did hear
The weepings of heroes, angels, even gods,
Reaching-out from that distance, wanting to help,
Hardly able to do so, speechless, despondent, testing this spirit,
The voice of reason that passes all understanding,
That accepts all death, but lives on,
Among the dead, the ruined, the terror of it all.
