Aging Sequence Poem Three
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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