Poem by elizabeth rose: Alms for the poor
The stories pour from pendulum eyes, weighted by the wait of years,where shadows loom larger than the buildings that overhang, mist
and mimic like a comedian no longer loved, betraying his guilt in his limbs.
Those eyes, worn well but not outside, not yet, as he leans closer in
to move that brow and grasp that spirit that is pulling away, snagged
on the tide of feet with neither vision nor soul, rubber drones drowned
by polite visors worn proudly in the fog. Inside he sees
they melt just like him…he tells me so with a sadness
that the people in “the faster world” do not show, but through his eyes
I see they know, and so I have to slow into the shadows, have
to be told…how did it come to this? And he pours himself
closer, peeling his umbilical cord to reveal ley lines, repellent where
his smile and continue to rest myself awhile, have to be told…
how does he rise to this? And he is liquid now, his sands
stirring a storm that shrouds us, my hand taken lightly, spilling
to a cheek that can not be whetted, bursting with shivers of an ocean
into me, searching for reeds to grow, toiling through the sinews
and bindings caught with barbs and opacity. I feel melted
tendrils tease out the fire, and he floods me as through
his eyes I am flowing, and I have to own him, his secrets.
his molten form incandescent now, thick and heavy, making my throat
burn and as I choke out of his eyes I see reflections of my weakness
so I recoil, smouldering, and I have to speed into the bright lights, have
to be rid, and so I spit on purpose, yet still he smiles, whilst my shadow’s cast
grows and I see myself, leave him aside, to race myself awhile
in the meagre tide, down at rubber heel and marble eyed.
