Three Poems
Linda King
anything of value spills dark
at the awkward dinner party
you wonder who to believe
how much to disclose
when you leave you offer
a strand of your pale hair
as a small kindness
you need money but the banks are closed
the tellers have lost all hope and symmetry
they are taking inventory of all the small bills
and past transgressions
this city suffers from a lack of colour
the buildings are grey and ordinary
anything of value spills dark
washes away loses ground
but you wear the right shade of red lipstick
you can recite all the shelter nouns by heart
you have twenty-three fare tickets
in your handbag
and you are determined to go
where language changes at every border
where there will be new words
for everything
there is always an old story in the way
small hours smaller dreams
you try to dry your wings
but you are treading streets
instead of water running low
on survival skills and useless grief
you see only the perfect damage
that has been done
the question is never the answer
take a step in any direction
bypass those vague desires
of purchase and possession
there is always an old story in the way
everything is part of something else
like reality scraps in the evidence given
that first angel was an accidental sighting
what you need is less than more you need
to spend the morning plumping the living room
to break off pieces of light
rearrange yourself
as you go stumbling and tripping
into the strength of that rare green
like a wind bent sapling
fill in the blanks
you have always gambled on language
but all the nouns have become proper
your words return rearranged
to fit a new point of view
continue? or begin again?
subject matter is overrated
there is no particular philosophy
regarding being or not
everything
is a chance you take
a lure of any either or proposition
like a wind bent sapling you say yes too often
you walk your anxiety to the pharmacy counter
dream your house has seven more rooms
there is a whole library in your pulse
where you fashion a construct of reality
you do not understand a word of it
and so you avoid your own question
how did you end up this feral child
in someone else’s yard?
Linda King is the author of the poetry collections Dream Street Details (Shoe Music Press, 2013), Reality Wayfarers (Shoe Music Press, 2014), No Dimes for the Dancing Gypsies (BlazeVOX Books, 2016), Ongoing Repairs to Something Significant (BlazeVOX Books, 2017) and Antibodies in the Alphabet (BlazeVOX Books, 2019). She has been nominated for Best of the Net and for The Pushcart Prize. She lives and writes by the sea on The Sunshine Coast of British Columbia, Canada.