I had the word yes scrunched up in my fist then you came along and calmed me and I opened my hand with you there. We saw the word yes together.
Author: simonsalento
After
Looking out
the world is flat
reflecting only clouds
All diverse is disappeared
the only difference the shade of sky
mountains valleys green all gone
Remembering the preflood
when the globe had shapes
before the hope was ended
before
before
before
Grandad stood at the kitchen sink
Grandad stood at the kitchen sink, eating an apple with his gutting knife. His bloodstained vest strained against his chest as he sliced so delicately with the rinsed-down blade. His jaw muscles worked under leathery skin; white stubble caught the light. He looked at the fish piled on the Sunday dinner dish and at the guts in the sink. He was thinking. “Nipper!” I jumped. “Clear up these guts and get ready. We’re going out.” A pause. “And don’t feed that cat. V, the fish is clean. I’m taking the boy out.” He put on his weekday cap and went into the yard to wash.
Your smile is a candle
Your smile is a candle.
It keeps me warm when the frost falls.
Your smile is a candle.
It shows me a way through the distance, the night.
Your smile is a candle, reflected in my eyes.
I’m not sure what I heard
I’m not sure what I heard.
“You know what gets me, pal?”
“What?”
“Hinges. Always squeaking.”
“Oh.”
“You know what gets me, pal?”
“What?”
“Angels. Always speaking.”
“Oh.”
“You know what gets me, pal?”
“What?”
“Edges. Always leaking.”
“Oh.”
I’m not sure what I heard.
I wear my birthdays (Jake’s story part 1)
I wear my birthdays like teeth on a string around my neck. Is today a big one? No, not really, perhaps a canine, it’s been a sharp, bitey kind of year but next year, well next year is the big one, a molar with a golden crown, deep roots catching on the fur on my chest. They say I look like a wolf when I smile so I tend not to. Not often.
Three places, three meals
Porridge. Honey. Nuts.
Jet engines in the background.
Small bubble of calm.
Lagoon risotto.
Tourists lost along canals.
Holiday begins.
Fisherman catches,
his wife and sons are cooking.
Now we feel at home.
First sight
the distance since our last fleeting touch
the time between our heartbeats quickening
the night that falls to cover smiles
the sun that surely will come up again
How to clean a window to a soul
To clear a window to a soul is not easy but
here is a way
First find the right soft duster
breathe softly on the cloth from the heart
and tentatively, watchfully, carefully
begin to polish away corrosion
The cloth can catch
and leave threads of itself
but with love and hope and perhaps thousands of tears
the rust on the soul window will clear
We have grown old
Invecchiati simu, frate.
Yes, you’re right. We have grown old apart
distant in distance and distant in time
but friendship is deeper than years.
We will always be brothers, brother;
our hands still hold the thin blade scars.
I see your face and you are your father
as he was when we were young
and ran and swam and threw stones at the sentries.
We will always be brothers, brother;
our heads still hold the baton scars.
And now we may be old my brother
and our bones may ache in the morning mist
but when they come to cut the trees
the trees which hold the world together
we will be there and we will be waiting
hand in hand and scar to scar.
