Fifty six at 56

by Maggie Graham

I was born on a Tuesday. Half-past a daffodil. Heartbeat in the wrong place. I hide it as well as I can. Sweet back and front. Heartbreakingly beautiful, as the poets say. Pure William Blake. Whose conversation was lofty. Also a child of God. Don’t attempt the bible. Chaos, that’s the point. If you don’t mind we’ll leave my mother out of this. I feel her goneness. Something numinous. Between pain and rage. Prepared to scour my dreams. Having died here full of years. This was the glove’s twisted finger. Robbed eyes still fighting. For the grace of a happy death. What kind of insanity keeps us from our lives. Grown twisted through lack of sunlight. After trudgery and drudgery. Perhaps she is seeing the ruins or the misericords. Iridescent or opaque glass. Something bright and sober. While you dingle with the dangle. Emerged from the subway, stunned and thrilled. There’s everything to talk about. Oil and wine for pity’s sake. A bulb is broken. The Elgin marbles are coming back in bits. Sweep the floor, sweep it again. Smeared with baby noses. Chasing mythical house-parlour maids. Oh yes, I have a history of marriage. Swallowed the whole thing like popcorn. Frying in a distant hell. While he chewed watermelon seeds. Bloody surreal. Largeness of meaning was redemption. All vast skies and seascapes. Come home to yourself. Next time I have a cocktail party. Bumped along the dirt road. Not a pleasant voyage. Everything disappears. Course they do.

You do see that.

Return to