Ken Poyner, 7/11


I have no memory of arriving.
We were simply there, a small
Multitude of children, round and round
The kitchen table, the lady
Of the house strapped to the kitchen
Chair, each of us stopping a moment
In our running and laughing
To pull down her chin with a thumb
And forefinger, to look in,
And feed the woman a stone.
I don’t know the why of this game.
I don’t know where
We drew the nations of rock in our pockets.
Round and round and one more
Stone, everyone a turn.
All sorts of pebbles and grit and a look
Into the black gullet, as bottomless
As necessary water, as the echo of an echo.
And then we were leaving,
The wrinkled, aged woman
Still in her chair saying Wait,
Don’t go and
I have no memory of leaving.
All these years and I cannot tell
Who has bound you so, my love.

Promote. Poetry.
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