Bluebird Matchbox

[[ A transformation of an actual childhood visit to relatives in Dundee and Perth. The long wait for adults to finish visiting grows to an evolutionary scale. The Bluebird Matchbox (actually a Corgi, says the internet) was produced to keep me or my brother or both of us busy while adults talked for the last time. ]]

In childhood I am guided in

to meet the ancient Britons known

to other ancient Britons then

as Helen, Bunty, Joe. All gone.

They are all shades of vein and chalk

and pebbledash and cardigan

and close-cut grass and gravel walk

and kindly smiles all wired in.

I play while they discover fire 

and pour a drink to warm their skins,

and ages pass while they admire  

how fingers grow where once were fins.

Jesus was a cracker

Jesus was a cracker 

we washed down 

with wine

was Jesus

Mary was a mumble

a bracelet

a sign

was Mary 

God was nothing 

in particular

a smoke bomb, 

a brass cup,

stained glass,

a widow working the organ 

working the organ

From all of which 

I assembled a cosmology

in a basement crèche

while God turned away from me

Jesus was a cracker 

we washed down 

with wine

was Jesus

Mary was a mumble

a bracelet

a sign
was Mary

the time between

what they wanted
was to trap it,

diagram it
get the coordinates
but that's where the trouble starts.

all we wanted
was to cut the tension

break the silence
excavate the evidence

signs that we were still alive

to pass the time between

when we were children 

when we were grown

to pass the time between

when we were smoking teens

when we were smoking teens

we put out cigarettes 

on our skin

we carved our arms

with kitchen scissors

we wanted ugly
wanted ugly

to cut through the angry

to cut through the sad

to punish ourselves

for being so bad

to show you

this is how much 

this skin can hurt

this is how much 

this nothing hurts
this is how much

cut the tension

break the silence

dig up evidence that we were still alive

cut the tension

break the silence

excavate the evidence

we are alive

climb the dark stairs

what's this bubbling 

up in my blood?

what's steaming

under the hood?

mother in the garden

fire in the kitchen 

mother in the garden

fire again

put down the pony 

frogs in the basement

neighbors on the party line

frogs in the well

lights in the drive

blue, red, and turning 

mother in the garden

something is burning

under the car at night

holding a torch for father

smell of spilled gasoline

orange of cigarette

smoke up the chimney

the game on teevee

twisting the aerial

pictures of snow

caught in the thunder

running in the rain 

wet camera jolting 

and jolting and jolting 

stories to 

sleep on

the dark and 

the bells

Nancy, Sikes,

Silver, Kim,

shipwrecked and 

kidnapped

and

climb the dark stairs

tempest and midsummer

salt and vinegar

the Russians in winter

alone in the woods

under the car at night

holding a torch for father

smell of spilled gasoline

orange of cigarette

mother in the garden

fire in the kitchen 

mother in the garden

fire again

stories to sleep on

climb the dark stairs

where lightning struck her

I met a woman

mostly hidden and cold

She's got a scar 

where lightning struck her

when she stopped growing old.

I met a woman,

life etched in her skin 

She's got a mark

where life ran out 

and the sickness got in.

but she could knock the paint off a saint

and she does

I met a woman

mostly cold and hidden

She's got a line 

you could talk right up to

but the rest is forbidden

fingertips on her skin

you trace her origin

here is the mother 

who beat her to hell

here is the father 

who loved her too well