John Gladwell
Where the Price I Pay for these Words is Immense
Behind shutters the sun
Thin lines of which bounce back into this room
Where the price I pay for these words is immense
Each torn from the inside of your mouth
From the inside of all which now exists
Of this line across sand
Across this chasm of memory
Which is your voice now given to shadows
Looking deep into the palm of my hand as you say.
'A miracle. These lines that don't meet and those that now do.'
Black clouds now gathered
Abrasive witnesses to these small silences
Which are all that remains of this hot August evening
When all things become if not possible then at least permissible
And where a crab dropped by a sea gull curls up at my feet
So out of bounds as to be an absence
In this landscape now filled with water
A new birthing which ought to
Wash all these words of their meaning
But which instead moves back to where
This cushion of almost believing becomes
A waiting for something to happen to share.
'Before disappointment, desire.'
A mixture of memory and fact
Of bells ringing across red-tiled roofs
Of you moving about in the room next door
Of a cold and broken weight upon my eyes
I will leave them closed I can see better that way.
Thin lines of which bounce back into this room
Where the price I pay for these words is immense
Each torn from the inside of your mouth
From the inside of all which now exists
Of this line across sand
Across this chasm of memory
Which is your voice now given to shadows
Looking deep into the palm of my hand as you say.
'A miracle. These lines that don't meet and those that now do.'
Black clouds now gathered
Abrasive witnesses to these small silences
Which are all that remains of this hot August evening
When all things become if not possible then at least permissible
And where a crab dropped by a sea gull curls up at my feet
So out of bounds as to be an absence
In this landscape now filled with water
A new birthing which ought to
Wash all these words of their meaning
But which instead moves back to where
This cushion of almost believing becomes
A waiting for something to happen to share.
'Before disappointment, desire.'
A mixture of memory and fact
Of bells ringing across red-tiled roofs
Of you moving about in the room next door
Of a cold and broken weight upon my eyes
I will leave them closed I can see better that way.
John Gladwell lives on the North Essex Coast where he teaches part-time in Adult Education. He has been widely published in a variety of magazines including PN Review, The Rialto, Ambit and a
previous edition of Staple.
previous edition of Staple.
Page(s) 79-80
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