Not-quite-right freedom from hunger
The vexing
How dark he was.
He walked with his back hunched,
his lowered head inches above his toes.
As if he feared cavities
or his own anonymity.
That black dog
stopping at every fence post.
He twitched. He was languid. At night
his bed clothes grew perturbed.
We sensed his not-quite-right
freedom from hunger.
As if he preferred worms
or no-name soup. A watery grave.
He let his pen do the squirming.
But the paper grew wider,
more empty than the sea.
Much better like this.
Eating focaccia and waving
our mothers an acquiescent goodbye.
The past exits the back door
where pot plants do their time.
Next door a television
talks to the walls.
Elegy
1.
murmurings of war —
in an unmarked sky a jet
dreams new script
*
on the powerline
crows collecting like small deaths
and then a wingbeat
*
already wearing black
two million office workers
preparing themselves
*
rumours from the city —
we check the basement, our phones
and still no answer
*
something upon us
the spotlight of terror
a new kind of love
*
empty house
the leaves, the man with his past
the earth rushing up
*
blue lights, sirens
the urban constellations
of alarm
*
frame by frame
nights stretched out on plasma
flowers on footpaths
*
last night on TV
he said, we will find them
we will find them
2.
turning from her desk
a doctor opens her hands
and the clocks change hour
*
all through summer
vans with lights on during day
ferry the silent
*
the return home —
after filling up our cars
we count boxes
*
a short speech of road
where the blackbird strings up worms
plaques buttoning earth
*
and these found objects —
a toothbrush, a gas bill
the neat bed
*
in today’s paper
ringed with coffee stains
this receipt of you
Anthony Lynch writes poetry and fiction, and is a reviewer for Australian Book Review. He works as an editor with Deakin University and is the Whitmore Press publisher. His collection of short stories, Redfin, was shortlisted for the 2008 Queensland Premier’s Literary Awards.