Free Lucky Me by Fred Simpson Page B

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    the moon subsumes the sun.
    Act Two, scene four, line 1.

T HE C ORE
    Hawk sight and dog scent, plus
    the touch of Keller,
    might help us
    to travel chemical, to reach
    a bottom quark,
    or even dark
    matter for that matter.
    Throw in the blind
    for their hearing, (and,
    if he doesn’t mind,
    a raging chef), then my goodness
    we would soar
    high, or even bore
    like moles into the molten.

S UBURBIA
    Unexpectedly the ice-stone
    sank, where the heart berths,
    tethered if you know your anatomy
    to a desolate suburb
    of flat and featureless terrain
    in the brain – without arched mountains
    as a backdrop, without caressing
    sycamore for shade – a pastel
    zone, a wither zone.
    And to dissolve the stone
    he sought the chaos of the centre,
    where crickets shrieked,
    where tree stems offered sweet
    latrines for dog and drunk,
    where rhythm beat the terror
    out of night, alone.

F OUR
Sevenths

A LIENATION
    Safely placed on the moon
    I watched the earth spill
    yolk, as it split into two.
    Dust smoked, and cups
    of crust lost poise,
    while water tried to fall.
    I saw one continent break
    into bits, like chocolate,
    and another buck the way
    loose wire does when
    live. To be honest I could
    have given up and cried,
    because the rest of the sky
    took absolutely no notice.
    I had the option of staying
    on the moon, of making a
    permanent home there, but
    everyone had gone, everyone;
    so I reattached my wings
    and flew towards the sun.

W ISHING
    I look out from the living
    without the clarity of youth,
    towards history, arriving
    by light at light speed, late.
    Previous suns, spelling an
    elemental tale, feign
    nonchalance, and blink;
    too remote to influence
    the living, (driven by reliable
    light), to think. Instead they
    look in, towards silos of brutal
    waste, greed and ambition.
    I am past wishing and prefer
    apparition, the unsettling
    hologram, the gossamer
    sliver of pearl in gas lace.

L INARIA
    At equinox
    when light and dark divide
    he fetches tools. Hand
    trowels, fowl droppings, collected
    seed; and turns
    the hibernating soil.
    His neck corrects
    for gravity with chalk
    on chalk, and weightless grains
    are lifted pinched
    between his father’s bones.
    In ancient
    brain his mother, thin
    in cotton, leads him past
    the angled fig. Past
    rock that clipped his toe.
    They fling dry seed
    and dip their biscuit halves in
    tea. Next thought she calls
    him round from play. They
    scan, indelibly, an oblong
    joy. His feet stick firm
    in dry dust, and
    he startles like wing.

    With thick saliva tasting of
    kiss, he stoops to rake
    then wet the modern earth.
    Nails and implements are washed
    clean, the dog is given a stick; and
    he waits for colour.

L UCKY M E !
    I believe in luck!
    Shot – or not – by a ricochet.
    Squashed like a frog when a block
    collapses – or not.
    I forfeit hymn,
    outrage and despair. The
    elements are indifferent. They
    obey physics, not prayer; they
    jump to commands from a seething
    earth writhing – or resting – flailing
    their arms when it storms – combing
    their hair when it calms.
    I believe in luck!
    Caught in the gaze of a
    lion – or eaten up.

M EETING
    A fitful dream (the type
    provoked by alcohol or meat)
    is like running in toffee.
    The most that one can
    hope for is to meet
    a kind ghost.
    Last week in such a dream
    (it could have been the heat)
    I met my mother.
    I knew it was my mother
    because the arms were hers
    and because she wore my feet.
    I tried, like any boy would, to
    touch her cheek and speak,
    but hand and tongue were wrapped
    in web, and weak. I tried
    once more to reach her face, but
    it was skewed, and turned into a sheet.

R AT
    At my age even a rat, running
    snout low, has me sucking air.
    To glimpse wild, (the there … and gone)
    is a surprise, an unanticipated gift
    unsnapped … a story half-believed,
    uncomfortable, envied.
    Like a disappearing snake
    there is an impulse, always late,
    to corner and destroy
    the marvel,