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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