Goodnight To The Dark
I tack word onto word in the failing
light, to convince myself this languorous
day of silent mourning for a baby
who never did live, but in a fancy
feverish as my own, who died only
in an inked game of chess, has meant something -
But all the real babies, actually
dead, whom I scroll past, stare, incredulous
into the depths of my indifference:
And I, like a gashed turnip, cower
behind my hamstrung words, and whisper
Merci, the SI unit of miracles.
Year After Year
In twos and threes they shuffle past
silent schools to bright flames
rising from rubbish. Ghosts of last
winter's dreams rock glowing,
blue-bordered gauze scarves as they burn
to wisps that float away.
Year after year they watch the door,
playing chess against fate
with no pieces, praying for more
than a mere miracle,
knowing that each letter they learn
secretly, could mean death -
Time taps them on the elbow-tips
with wooden mockeries,
fueled by twigs and old
copies. Full marks and their stars
turn first to red smiles, then ash.
