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John Lindley

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Missed Chance

Of all my small regrets
the one I remembered today
had to do with never sending,
as a boy, for those X-Ray Spex.

Of all the temptations that called
from the pages of U.S. comics –
the pen that shot ink,
the fake turds and blood clots –

nothing in those mail order ad’s
suggested more possibilities to a lad
than glasses to see through walls,
see through clothes, see through flesh.

Perhaps, even at eleven,
I could see through them
without ordering, see through
the lie, the trick, the con.

Someone told me it was done
with plucked feathers and plastic
and today, in a field,
I see the grey skeleton of a hare,

think of a feather’s ribs
and believe it all possible.
No amount of squinting though
is enough to render decades

of memory’s walls suddenly transparent
or conjure up Janet Finch’s
small breasts, quietly erupting
under a grey school blouse.

 

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