Samuel Beckett’s Wrinkles

Samuel Beckett’s Wrinkles

It starts with an untidy map
held within skin,
deep and heavy on the head

And becomes an avenue of this, a river of that
a crossroad, meeting between eyebrow
curved and bent beyond recognition;

A roundabout
at cheek and chin,
drawing the mouth into recess.

Eyes become unexplored terrain
while hair, always neater than the face
reaches for sky.

Libby Hart

Our Birth is but a Sleep
and a Forgetting

The man who believed
that televised weather forecasts
make it all happen:

the woman who did all her foreign travel
under a lemon tree
in her backyard, with an atlas:

the young man, faintly adventurous
who entered a maze and never came out,
leaving half a handkerchief behind:

the cabin attendant, or trolley-dolly,
afflicted by her entirely terrible
fear of heights:

the country butcher
whose father falling blind drunk
had been gobbled up by pigs:

the teenage girl whose main belief was
that, if she fell asleep, her legs
and arms could easily drop off:

the little boy who felt at night
the surrounding darkness
was all made of water:

and the chubby rose-pink baby
who had remembered it all
but now forgot.

Chris Wallace-Crabbe

 

 

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