The Magpies

He wanders in an empty field;

Firm ground

Stood at the edges of modernity.

–

The air itself breathes deeply,

Then exhales,

As though returning home.

–

The magpies hop across the ground,

Silently dignified,

He salutes this stately parliament.

–

This is the religion he has picked.

Passed on

By the corrupting mouth of man.

–

That trivial rhyme, a song of insecurity,

Pulls on the tether

Back to the past we care to imagine.

–

So there, in an ancient silence,

He prays

To tame his galloping mind.

–

Watch him at the altar,

Firmly grounded,

Outside of modernity.

Laughing

You laughed, when you tripped

And fell. Then I did too;

Fostered by concern.

Some crudely drawn anatomy

On the cast; a silent apology.

The comedy of affection.

–

You laugh to broach

The intimacy. A fragile body

Submits to a sympathetic

hand. That mends with

Irreverence and Sudocrem;

Sheepishly applied

–

I laughed, as I brought up

The tray of food that day.

You, wrapped up in blankets.

Me, in a pinefore.

“Your breakfast is served!”

A giggle infected by a groan.

–

I laugh

Less, when the pain lingers.

“Don’t be so hysterical,”

You grin. To regulate my

Anxiety. No better treatment

Than levity in heavy conversation.

–

You laugh, when I say

“What will I do?”

“Rather me than you.”

Drifting down the hall you say,

“No worse than a fall!”.

Outshining the halogen bulbs.

–

You laugh but it didn’t take,

At first. The ward is silent

This time of night. And against

The fading evening light

We beam at each other.

And laugh.

Cupid’s Arrow

It was not Cupid’s Arrow

That struck him down.

It was Cupid’s IV drip.

A prick to deliver the sustenance

he needed to go on.

–

The slow trickle of feeling.

A steady dosage of affection,

Sensibly prescribed,

That writhes atop his skin

Like morphine.

–

It wasn’t Cupid’s arrow

With all it’s vulgar sharpness.

It was Cupid’s Anadin.

Take two in the morning

And blunt those human pains.

–

It wasn’t Cupid’s arrow

Tearing a golden wound.

It was Cupid’s suture,

Knitting back together

The gaping relics of

A life, till then, misspent.