Stitching

I was holding the edge of your skirt;

it was tough fustian, 

the kind of artisan thing

with the hard stitching

of a babushka

which it has become fashionable

to fashion and indeed wear here

in Brooklyn, when I finally woke up;

and shook off pain,

if not killed it,

with the waking up of words I first read,

or heard spoken on warm lips

not above crowds really

but really above a vent

and the backdrop of an apartment

block.

And it was cold but not truly Christmas.

I favour the truth now älskling

it won’t hurt to say,

a thing like; I love you

and the tough edge of your artisan’s skirt

though you’ve never yet worn it

or owned it,

and once again I’ve let

the appropriateness of an image

take truth one stich further

than I oughta,

because it sounded better. 

Desert

You were with the Sufi,

last time I looked,

holding on to his skirts,

as the red eyed hashishin,

offered you small glass cups of tea, 

sweeter then a child’s voice

from the damp sheets of a dream

I will look again, one day soon,

and I don’t know what to expect,

except a sand storm, 

crumbling ramparts, 

the slow hooves of a camel

and you, sheathed in silks,

protecting your eyes from the sun. 

Lawyers

All I said I’d do is sit here,

waiting for your hand to lift its fist

clenched to hit, waiting is all I did

"I share your frustration" you said,

as I clenched mine,

and in the rattling of a sabre,

or the snarl of a dog, it was over,

all those careful acts scattered

and now in boxes, stacked

jumbled in storage, or half tumbled

from cupboards,

this was never the way of war,

armies should range in rank

careful generals assess the valley

and the direction of the wind

before their volleys are cast;

because it’s a serious business 
to hack the flesh of men, 
it calls for doctors and poets,

but when we came at eachother,

the war against terror 

was year younger than us; 

and we had only lawyers.