Ann-Marie Eldon, Desert Stations





Desert Stations


I had grown tired of keeping watch

you tried to find my resting place


its handprint obscured

by scurrying brand names. I


withdrew fingers, caresses become

nail clippings which bought mind files:


banks piled high with the dead

their glory dried to paper flowers


I dream mini Buddhas row after row

sheltered from their vultured genotypes


dread relabelling. Stench –

what logo that? Soap –


as if dysfunctional might cleanse us. Signposts –

most bent, gone, my warm dent


cold and a sanctity renamed

The Unmerciful Endurances (heard


carrion resurrect its claim; screech

some cryptic eschatology. Follow )


my ironies' trail, body bags look like sausages don't

they? We can admit nothing up here, detached, flying


banners come slogans come promises come ideas

summated panacea


I must have slept

you woke me, a groan and easily, such uncalm could


have been earthquake, mourning-marches or more hard

armoury making itself spent


I needed out, however a sun was always high

enough to take good video by


no insistent logical argument

not a case of Logos or teleology

nor national sovereignties

but syncopated casualty alcoves on a

                                                  plasma screen


live-time somewhere a debate "No, we,

the self-satisfied, are not thrown to the lions"


You must have said, contrary as ever, Reach and learn my love, prayers flags flutter.


Hope nudged

but I turned over





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