Your Soul in Five Parts

by


Your Soul in Five Parts

 

Heart —            So many hearts are thrown into a lake of fire:

               yours light as a feather of Egyptian blue, your

               Negative Confession long, compelling;

               your spirit still skipping

               between good deeds

 

Name —            I say your name aloud at the end of the garden

               to remember its sound. Repeat it in a whisper

               like a secret. A gift that rises from dull green

 switchgrass to ears of deep orange cloud

The word written in hieroglyph wisps

 

Twin —              A black and white bird with your face. On its

way to different places at once: the creek on

 the island’s inside beach, the triad of gums

 you planted, the lawn of your childhood

               home. Soaring through every sunrise

 

Persona —        I watch the birds for facial expressions. To the

one that swoops: you don’t need to remind us

to remember you. I often feel warm wings

around our house

when the stars come out

 

Shadow —        Your mouth fell open and your essence flew

to join the others. I find myself asking if I

please you. Seeking approval from shadows.

Asking If the colours I’ve used will ever be

strong enough

 

 

 

 

 

NOTE:  The ancient Egyptians believed the human soul consisted of separate parts, each with its own role to play in the afterlife.

 

 

 

Share This

From the West Wing

by


The hospital sits within a concentric circle of time: through

the window a black bird

 

sits in a white-trunked tree, a vacant car park sprawls, a train

hurtles by, a sunless day

 

sucked of joy is suspended grey on a hanger. I have special

powers: can see forward and back,

 

remember the future in fine cartographic lines — jigsaws of

boats that blur to become animals

 

drawn with fingers on hot sand. There are coastlines of touch,

a vulnerability in the face

 

of sharp pointed instruments — I am reminded of miracles:

the small happy cloud I lived on mothering

 

two small boys. You endlessly scroll on your phone and I turn

the pages of a book with images

 

of temporal sculptures from water, ice, leaves, feathers. It occurs

to me that we live in a world

 

that is both hard and soft: not easy to distinguish between them.

The magenta wall of this room

 

is an unkind industrial colour. You sleep, half-turned away and

your lashes sweep a cheek moments ago

 

an angry red. Time is a stretch of nerve fibres: anticipation and

regret. Across the river, first lights blink.

Share This

Back to Authors