Author Information
The Eve Of Twelve
Twelve shadows of a hand over light
smudge the seeping yolk of this day
Harrowing nostalgia; rankling hell-cuts like red ants
or a cluster of thorns birthing between my eyes –
They snap shut like a Venus's flytrap
as home truths do not always need sight as a witness
The shape of a wince: a swarm of bubbles to the surface
Little worlds; hastening, popping, becoming nothing
Throw it all into a cauldron and stir
A dash of cracked bone sobriety and a splash
of a sound thinner than the hair of innocence curling
from the awful heat, it certainly is
no magic when the gentle nature of floating charred paper
Betrays itself around my head and –
when ominously – an anniversary pools like blood at my feet
NJP 21 September 2004
