Candy M. Gourlay

Days of Cloth

‘The moving finger writes; and, having writ,
moves on: nor all thy piety nor wit
shall lure it back to cancel half a line,
nor all thy tears wash out a word of it.‘
- Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám

Thin winter, this year of death--
funerals abundant as wild ivy
clawing up suburban walls.
A starving need is growing
like algae in my belly.
I seek proof from death columns
in the Classified, like dope
to dull a nagging sense
that we were singled out--
stoned on knowledge
that we all go the same way.
People die.
I threw up before I left the house.

Black ink of another eulogy
bubbles acid in my gut.
Red wine in a highball at ten-am
has become my means to settle
trembling hands and voice.
Below its scarlet veil, the ache persists.
Since his suicide, people
have dropped like Chernobyl flies.
Processing relatives, life is a high
speed liquidiser blowing blades of reason.

Scribbled words on scrap paper
substitute worry beads.
Absently, fingers roll them
into a cigarette.
I would give a toe to smoke them.
Pieces of me want to explode
with laughter, to drown the quiet
with a spray of raucous hysteria.
Silence is a lawnmower trimming sanity.
Middle-aged women in outdated hats
greet me. Surely they are not as old
as they look.

I seek solace in the gardens
of remembrance.
Six months since summer
pretended to be autumn, since
soft rain fell out of heaven
while we interned his ashes.
More gravel than ash--
Discarded fragments of shell.
Like many things, they are different
than I had imagined.

In all this unnamed grass, where
do I find him?
Eight footsteps from the bench,
twelve from the oak.
With downcast eyes, I watch
ants move house.
My mother says she can feel
the peace, says she senses
the presence of rest.
I sense neither.
I am bitter and cannot disguise it.
The sky doesn't care, it's blue
and water sun pisses down
through translucence.

Inside the cold tomb of worship
to a god with whom I argue,
I receive silent nods from faces
whose names I cannot recall.
Cloth of invisible blood
shrouds a small coffin.
Robes a mile long walk the plank
to alters of incense and small
bells on ribbon echo into stone.

I imagine Sunday sermons
to educate the masses
'before it's too late' emphasised
with water, a hundred burning candles
and young boys wearing dresses.

I wonder if the priest remembers
when we blasted these leaded lights
with 'Every Breath You Take'
while shell-shocked mourners
trickled from church doors
after his funeral; or how we sang
'Imagine' and--everybody hurts...
sometimes--chipped voices
trailing to a twelve-string guitar.

He signals me to the pulpit.
I unroll my cigarette eulogy, clear
the sawdust from my throat:
'a precious lady left
us during the small hours...'.
Cold sun burns a hole through stained
glass windows and maybe normal
is about finding an audience
just as desperate.

Give me one and I promise to perform.

Glass Garbage

‘Like fallin’ rain
the days go by
can't kill the pain
and you wonder why
be strong, hold on,
‘lotta love to go around
stay wild soul child
don't you let 'em bring you down
it's like a dream
wake me up when it's over’
- Shawn Mullins, Soul Child

Pictures are toxic memories
smudged with swirls of evidence.
How wrong you were about me.
Ribbons untied, wrapping paper
stuffed behind cushions.
What lies beneath exposed--
devious creature, the spider inside.

Apple fallen from a tree
rotting at the core, you peered
through windows not intended
for your eyes and into the darkness
of sin, I fell away--a human sinkhole.

My silence was your poison, burning
through phone lines; hurtling across
continents; flowing over sea beds.
Words could not do justice, nor explain
that it was never about you.

Philosophy is a weak antihistamine
for allergic reactions to living.
Wretched lies, emotional suicide
severed blood ties and you
became a proverbial hypocrite
while I--just a goddamned bitch
and-then-some, honey.

More difficult to digest than death
the chilling fact that what I did
removed you from me, permanently.
Forgiveness is a tarnished tiara
collecting cobwebs in the attic
and deception is a wedding dress
softening my sharp edges.

Like a pickled onion, you exist
on the mantle behind satin glass-
matron of honour for posterity.
I seldom dust you, afraid
you will crack beneath my touch.
Broken glass cannot be mended
so I throw away thoughts of you
like garbage.

Cement Stars and Pin Oaks

'The difference between
false memories and true ones
is the same as for jewels:
it is always the false ones
that look the most real,
the most brilliant.'
- Salvador Dali

Pin-oaks cast shadows
like van Gogh cemented
stars into canvass.

Elastic band stretched time
since dawn last received
me with warmth.

Bitter chill no matter
the season, I must rise
to meet it—knowing,

as I know, like blossoms
know when to bloom,
that I do not belong.

Flesh begs to be sent away
from here. Doors closed
behind me when I am gone.

I am not worthy anymore.
Cups with chipped edges
must be cast away,

useless to the very ground
cushioning heavy steps.
No reprieve

from hard-boiled eyes
and spills remain stained
into my existence;

burned into conscience
for an endless length
of imperfection;

of pin-oaks casting shadows
like stars cemented
into sky,

like this treachery
has been fastened
to the jacket of my life.