[Waiting for Charlie]
Ph speaks to me about truth & essays.
He tells me to own the I
build Babel. But my tools are scattered
mouthful vital soils.
I exhume Plutarch with my tongue while
we chat about identity over coffee.
He hunched in Leffler Peace Park, eyes dilated, children sipped from his lips.
I tried to imitate his gaze and my father called me—
Gréagóir pulls me to his chest, arms ignited
I burrow in embers
Manitoulin river rock sunset
he clings to me like Charlie, sinking rib-deep
breathless he takes shots shots shots
my fingertips graze smouldering shoulders.
Deathless, I ride single breasted into the breath of Achilles.
But I am thin. I hide behind trees, torchless on the edge of seas.
I pronounce my time of death
I wave my hand to display the ring.
Poets are not liars because we never claim truth.
I feel old when I should feel brilliant.
This is an intimate conversation.