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Poem

How will I be in 10 years,
the fir tree asks the maple,
the calf asks the cow,
the baby splutters out


I need to know before they publish
the writs. I need to know 
before my head is presented
on a platter to Salome 


Who will follow me?
I need to burn my words
onto the lips of the living

Sort of words
before they wither away


I need to keep talking 
to John Donne,
Shakespeare, TS Eliot,
to settle into Rothko’s rectangles
before I am colour blind. 
I need to keep talking 
to the grassy spirits

With me all day long
before my tongue fails


My arms hurt from clutching you,
heavy bearers of consciousness
and beyond. The book age
is slowly exterminating

Not burning,
simply not being born


How much time remains
for me to hold you,
dine with you,
lick your words,
sort of words 
while I still can see them

Last meal,
mine or yours?


I see the chamber emptying
as I forget words and locations. 
I need to know how much 
time remains

before the boxing up,
the clearing out before I say so 


I want to howl for as long as I can 
about the injustice of the finite,
the tyranny of counting
how much has passed

The impossibility of knowing
how much is left


I return to the present
to my wit and recall
and my avalanche of discourse

About babies and maples
and being one in flesh and song


I pound to all species
I am here
I am here
I am here


Salome, devil reaper,
wait before you strike,
warn me
wave a rag
send an emissary
to tell me exactly when

(c) Anita Lerek, 2018

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