David Jackson Between the Lines
These are the spaces between the lines:
The gradations, elations, humiliations —
the sifts and shifts we endure
The seism which interrupts
The hiccup which skips
us through
The foothold which accedes
to the great leveler
A world’s wonder of grief
and wisdom
interposed
Do not try to pry even a whisper
from my lips
***
Among Their Pictures
——————————————————————————–
In my memory I’m the one who always wanders
Within their pictures: the stretched black
Strips around the gravestone photograph,
The standing twisted flowers,
The burning candles under their icons.
From inside the scene: suddenly, on
The white margins, I see their fingerprints
Which now appear along with their laughing voices;
Their stifled whispers are breaking me.
Oh, how different it should all be
With them, they should be running
With their warm breath panting,
And not inanimate and flaccid
Like they are now, without their lives.
***
LIKE A THIEF
How can I make you love me?
…and how to fill you
with a dream of me!,
unlikely and impossible
and utterly untrue
…then
slowly steer you to the dire
(smoke and steam
profuse upon the fire) inadequacy
as limitless
as stony bare and vile.
No! It could not possibly
be the same for you!
Oh dream and lullaby and light
to which I give my wounded guile
like a thief
who steals you
in the night.
***