Bramah and the Beggar Boy
Page 14
Fingers weave and knot and lace, learn with grace
warp up, weft across, make your spindles wood.
Then, they led me to a darkened chamber:
Folding the edges of the mask, sides sewn.
Electromagnetic wave———front objects.
Our hands to push the fire button fast.
Hoarded, bartered, silk, nylon, cotton scraps.
Polypropylene banned, discarded, or
so said Consortium, blind eyes turning
folded fabric, half backs facing outward:
pins to pattern, quarters cut on the seam.
3-D and virtual, grooved plates, angled light
illuminations, those beams recorded.
Threaded pieces upward, threaded back down.
Reference beams, scattering telepresence:
Layered centre line, a needle and thread.
Tie the elastic and fear for our dead.
The Guild Hall Makers Chant Their Secret
At the Wishing Well we said their names loud:
banyan, oak, linden, maple, birch and fir.
North, South, East, West, each epoch brings a test.
To tie a knot, to bake unleavened bread.
To leave enough honey on the cut comb,
Come, Bramah, we then whispered, save our end.
From a line to a circle, spinning spheres,
spices and oatmeal, mud from the river.
Split open bark, cotton thread twisted fine,
each strand of our story woven in time.
Knives sharpened at dawn, we cut down green vines.
Sweet branches ablaze with a thousand bees.
Strike a match, light a candle, bury gold,
Come Bramah warm us, we’ll never grow old.
All this they shared with Abigail and told,
Six oak trees at midnight to save our secrets.
With a toss of her head, Abigail paused
grinning, she asked, and about that man, Bartholomew?
Abigail and Bartholomew
Pursued from the Gate of the Autumn Portal
Surveillance footage to show them running—
loping gait, they stride to the lock, canal, drifters
obsessed, with payment, masks untied, hob-boots
muddied, the same path, up to the river—
snowfall, auburn pastures, stone-cutters’ hut
else, city core, the Sandman, where they stayed
that night following Abigail on foot—
Later, the Boy Brigades sang, Don’t trust them,
just call ’em, Rip Van Winkles, they coughed and——
slow walks, scythed meadows, pebbled narrow lanes
Watch your back, Abigail, you’ll be wanted.
We done all our coughing, we torn off our masks.
That Time of the Wildfires, Abigail Sends Word
Ramshackle, dirt poor, fingernails broken
said strong, slow, sweet: Only hard-luck stories.
Lips to hands, I’ll come to you in your dreams.
She said, Goodbye to rain on the river.
Bees encircling each breast, his name danced.
A thousand shores, those border children cried.
Shattered glass, morning’s surrender, sirens
who called, the fallen on their knees, memory:
she saved six, his eyelashes, long, gold-tipped
all thought obliterated, guns drawn, hands
seven thousand kilometres, years and—
whoso serves, unlock, that gate, hair unbound
standing, his gaze sent—his last cigarette
far distances, five bombs dropped—minarets—
For calling lovers through distance and time
she knew just the spell, save he wasn’t, yet.
That Moment When They Fell
Moonlight on the bed inside Rentalsman:
Before-Time books strewn across bedsheets;
silver keepsake, golden rings, frozen fields.
Dear Dante, a thousand turmoils, distant——
Dear Zhivago, one woman’s story, told.
Dear Robin, when lightning strikes, that North Shore.
Dear Buxom Girl, I seen your picture and—
Dear Wax-Jean Woman, the body promises—
To walk under starlight’s infinite gaze
each moment with us emits a pulse
foretold, predestined, inescapable:
always, we are kneeling, upstairs in the—
Time smothers us in his blanket, tight-rolled.
I will sing although afraid, as foretold.
Theatre entrance scanned, each face not his—
I’ve started again, weeping at Seed Saver meetings,
white latex, used rubbers, after. Smoke, ash,
Port Orford cedar, built from long ago.
On stage, his hand crushed mine. There was applause.
Resistance leaders jealous of our skills.
Red is a colour on the devil’s head,
refrains: outside, the detention centre—
Unanswered moon prayers, roses turned toad.
Says that quarter sphere to Venus: side smile:
night hills rise, silent snow-covered, looming,
this becoming, porous-captured, how to—
my face to his, drawn diagonal, checked.
We’ve come that far, driven into that wreck.
Mix recorded live, snatched, mashed, dance-hall snips.
We called it blueprint, a good ear, viral,
pitched nomadic, minus passports, easy
cluttered digital, user error, junk
bandwidths, bottled, necked out, circumference whole
tinkered with, tuned, our samples compounded.
Ah Mustafa, the women exclaimed, locked
away to the far borders, those marchers
through an open window, seen, a four-track
the way they watched us smile, we smiled back, strong
sonically squelched, suffused, captured, night
that time of meeting, the questions of where—
speak, think, make: Outside Perimeter’s strike.
Our story began in Pacifica—
Abigail and Bartholomew Help a Group of Seed Savers
Where the fuck is he? the Guards screamed at us.
And gathered our clothes as fast as we could.
Wanted, the names of all the others.
Logged stumps, young hemlock, we chewed the needles.
Apis mellifera L., captured, chilled—
no warmth, save making, them the painters stored.
Walking toward us, silver-orbed crooner,
Bring him to me and soon: bargain pleas, worth—
less than anyone else, we would still dare
that distance, orbital range, spinning fast.
It were north in the city, ice upon—
that riverbank, his face, eyes downcast, lashed:
arms spread on the back of the wind named Niamh
my fingers, his arm, no give there, his sleeve—
Sewn inside, what looked like rips, threaded down
long past midnight, picked apart, sequoia
red dawn, rare, seeds as thin as oat flakes
fluttered—
All the Things That Then Happened
That line where the missing-you part begins
She just wanted to make sure he lived through—
His hands on her hair, pulling. Outside, edge
snow-covered, windswept, sharp gravestone letters:
One settler: rare visits, press send, fingers—
and of that all-alone mother, no word.
Standing at the border, she wept, head raised
wall, bridge, road, checkpoint security, they
ghost workers, no airport would release the—
In the hands of the woman whose child had
that buoy, outer limits, cold dropping—
Devouring Time, where steps fell on ice
years earlier, aerial: mountain paths,
after, they realized, no one to ask—
And so in secret, no deity there
they walked to the shrine of the Kings of Laois
brought overseas from a band of peddlers
All the things not said, they’d wish them, they’d wed
melted, and loved the name, esker, and held
undulated, their song of the hollow
And threw salal down, lake basin, bowl
that moment when everything fell away
all the things not said, they’d wish them, they’d wed
and showed their palms, up, un/veined, without holes
He brought her magnolia oil, her heels chafed, cracked
newspaper lined their boots, she cried to think
all the things not said, they’d wish them, they’d wed
branded, their families, and ran, chased, outlawed
rainfall, a blanket, who could remember—
Hunted by Agents of Consortium
Long black strands, the past, hungry to claim her.
His fingers smeared honey, each fold, her skin.
Stop accusing me of beauty, she said.
He knew to ask nothing, that young boy’s boots—
Once were warriors, they said, together.
Once fire burned, that lake, acid rain, all
things real, un/real: that resonant dance—they—
City centre, woodcut variants, inked
relief surface gouged; uncarved, reversed
by hand, each print. Door-to-door combat, press—
Machine-gunned, pockmarked walls, battering rams.
Inside, circle where they squatted or bent:
plaid shirt, jeans, heavy yellow paper, thumb—
arms up, back wrenched, eyes fixed, gun-struck
mouths, dumb.
—escarpment, they’d walk, slope to slope, falling
slinged arrows, sticks, guards turning over
all things left behind, they’d not tarry often
deposited on one side, eroded
steadfast the rate by which, both of them, pursued
falling, escarpment, they’d run, slope to slope
faces, a hundred thousand, captured, chained
those shadow women, who warned Don’t get caught
those peddlers, those beggar children, arms cut
Abigail and Bartholomew, scared, still
trying to save, failing, falling, escarpment,
they’d stagger, slope to slope, ground sodden
marram grass, by seed and by root, rhizomes,
and rolled down those dunes forever and a day.
Cronos laughing, wrapped them tight, blankets!
Don’t take this world too personal, prisoners said.
Doomed battles, long-shot chances, odds against,
from indifference: rapture, radiance:
And called him beloved, battle-scarred, who stood—
there were the demands for signs, yet none came.
There was the applause: Then his hand crushed mine.
They would seduce one to find the other.
Crash: symbols, timpani: borders, bridges,
men pushed barges; trees sunk in the river.
To her knees falling when called, her hair shook.
Trouble lay breathing in corners too deep.
Beauty hoarded to hide from stealing
that house, those chronic angers, no healing,
doomed causes, terrible odds, and signed—
Every last one of us, those boys sang.
In Rentalsman, they opened windows, blinds
that rapid gunfire, snow-laden trees, bent—
Surged, those after-midnight calls, therapy:
once she was Queen of all-the-street, walking.
What prisoners did and lovers, jilted, they—
With the heels of her hands, she pushed the sky,
the last scion of that lumber family.
Inside Rentalsman: heavy, soft, fluid—
Outside, bullets scavenged, melted, reused.
Months long, those battles: morning, brigades sang:
His strong hands, eyes—to want those times again,
scrapped paper, she wrote, To have you as my friend.
One Night, a Bard Sings of the Battle of Kingsway
Sadness a substance, set down, front step, run—
Don’t start with me, snarled a Guard of the Gate.
When they firebombed those specials, ombre.
Our gaze would always, and we found ourselves,
enough metal burned, ours hands could not hold.
Those specials, made in the Before-Time, decks,
black snake slithering, elephant heel crushed.
Pay attention! cried the tablet bearer.
Capable of, that moment on the bridge.
Look where we are brought down to, hands held strong:
blisters, barbed wire, those kinds of kisses.
She ran toward the river, knew those hills,
and called the Battle, Kingsway, us shipped in—
Outside a row of children recited—
Abigail, Abigail, come to our well
The future’s not over, we’ll never tell.
And did they then stare into the fire—
And did they understand: they must flee—
Leaving Pacifica to Join the Resistance
Snow on the mountains, crossing the Fraser
I’ve put on my makeup, blanket scarf unwrapped
green wool coat on the train inside a car:
everyone quiet, blue water, white banks
gloves on my knee, phone put away, fingers—
Zhivago, you are in my brown hands, held.
City centre square, those giant reindeer—
LED lights glow silver, spun, cast, flakes
snow falling, that sequined skirt, in the court—
a drink made from tears, heart-bone of a stag:
that evening and later, these long months passed
in which the silence, with every breath, Chance—
We will meet at the Place of the Bronze Wheel.
From that treasure chest, those gems we will steal.
As Foretold Although She Did Not See It Then
Night-hours, sinews whispering to bone
Night seamstresses squatted on forest floors
Night music, feathery beats, a Snowy Owl
Each footprint, snowflake erased: a thousand
Each lamentation, hoarfrost breath, a light—
Each frozen kiss, liquid lips, stuck, melted
Shingles, spars, knot-free, ice-laden, waiting
Sitka trunk, open crown, icicle free
Silver birches, leafless, dreaming of green
Pacifica, they sang. Retreating ships—
Kingsway to Rue Mouffetard, those letters sent
They stood, market centre, each breath, a plume
They spoke mélange, crunched ice underfoot, stamped
They fell silent, long lines, those upper ramps—
Time-travelling with Bartholomew
How to get used to it, the street choirs sang
Inside that room, those hooded men questioned
And so the year ended they could not hope
All he
r mirror-lookings, she’d break beauty
The knives stored casket-deep, just beyond reach
Destiny, Chance, Fate: these three gates opened
After the first catastrophe, the lists—
That November changed to December, risked
Supple, slender, smooth, arms beckoned, replete
Cardamom, ginger, cloves, crushed, hoarded mounds
I am here, crooned Abigail, forehead, cut
Those long-ago days, they’d kneel, heads bent low
That tension, to name/un/name, cherished, gone
And called out, moments: when he, and she, they—
Finding Refuge with an Ex-Lover
After they cut the block, image reversed
That house, well inside Perimeter where—
Sharp sun to rise over ice-crusted streets
She studied his hands: they decided, space
Directly on the block, rough, smooth, prepared—
Outside, Cedrus deodara, furrowed.
North of Kingsway, Pacifica recalled.
He wrote in her book the names of artists.
London, the Before-Time, he’d retraced steps.
Every drawing, her mouth, every brush stroke—
They’d felted, carded, scraped: presence, shapes
The strength of one glance, to last forever
Outside, Boy Brigades sang: Carmanah-tall
Inside, he kneeled to show her, edges, all—
Untouched by language, he divined secrets
Revenant, cold-stalker, heat-seekers, gone.
Amulet, keepsake, fear-soother, held tight
his body bent over, hands adjunct, side—
Anything, is what she told him, I’d do—
What is mine to give, he said, jewels, birds
Night, a cloak of stars, morning’s moon crescent
His eyes, her lips, curved, centrifugal force