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David Boll

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Measles

David Boll reading Measles 1771.2 KB
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Exiled by illness from my world
to a huge bed in half darkness
I heard in the morning the shouts
of the rag and scrap man, hoofbeats
from his horse, then the tea time cries
of friends out of school and the growl
of roller skate races, each sound
clear, sharp as if heard the first time,
first time for itself.

The dim blue flowers of drawn curtains
seethed with people as horsemen rode
from flower to flower which were cities
and the Caliph mounted his golden throne
among golden towers where
when the curtains stirred gigantic
Djins smoked up, vanished, and I
hoped they would seize me, fly me there
Caliph for a day.

When my father read to me, words
became people and the white knight
who even protected his horse
with ankle spikes against shark bites
became my protector while words
fell steadily as the hoofbeats
and together we found our way
out through the tangled and twilit
thickets of illness.

At night I feared the huge shadows
beating their wings as they circled
to gulp down a vase, gorge themselves
on a wardrobe, like the black crow
Tweedledum and Tweedledee fled
away from, but every night
they would calm as the fire slowly
hauled down its sails of flame and I
calmed, harboured in sleep.

Untitled - Marsha Levin

David Boll lives and writes in London.

Page(s) 52

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