You are the first nations, the first people.
As I was coming in you were going out
you held the door for me and said, ‘good timing.’
I asserted, ‘Yes, indeed, good timing thank you.’
Ascending the stair, I felt my settler state.
My emphases extending everywhere
your body, your speech, your land.
The murderer and the murdered
I feel like Agamemnon as he sacrificed Iphigenia.
I am Iphigenia as she died at her father’s hand
a rag stuffed in her mouth.
I am a myth
open my mouth.
I left, leaving the mother who will
kill from revenge.
There I see you, you are looking at the garden.
I see your hand on the phone
delicately reflecting in the pale light like a ghost.
You arrived after me, yet went before me
traveling to the garden, you find space.
You put flowers in your hair and wander.
You smell the lilac, sweet peas and lilies of the valley.
Your name is Tara, you are the Goddess of compassion
my name is Jane, I am the grace of God.
So, there is an end to suffering
simply 9/6/2017 at 3.00am.
Free fall grasping at before
I did whack him one before I left.
There was a man
outside Tim Horton’s – fast asleep.
His whole world tucked in around him
Himself splayed out, blissfully, on the street.
The thought of sleep how I sleep, how you sleep
how we all sleep.
With our world in disarray around us, from concrete to mega thread counts
our mouths hanging open as we retreat.
I visited the bed shop
the customer service lady showed a memory foam bed.
As I lay down the foam took me
the most gentle grasp shaping around my prone body.
I lay as if in a body bowl.
When I arose the memory of me disappeared
and I thought of the dead.
The dead, who died in hospital on mattresses covered in plastic.
We washed their soft skin
lifting limbs and wiping gently, taking off signs of life.
Silently we dressed them in a shroud
the mattress kept its sense of shape long after the person departed.
Storing the body story.
Poems on the Megaphone by Jane Frankish
Please visit Jane and the Library Monkeys