As Though Nothing Had Happened

I trace a line
Where your fingers had lain.
Sliding my palm
Up the rail, to the gleaming metal fuselage.
I can feel you
Beneath my fingertips;
Intermittently you are there,
Then you are gone.
In the places you laid your hand
I am caught by a magnet,
Paralysed on the steps.
I have to prise my fingers
Away from your polarity.
There you are, at the top.
Smiling.
Flicking a strand of auburn hair
Behind your ear, as though;
As though, nothing had happened.

Waiting for the fire to go out

You always lit the fire,
Kneeling on the hearth rug
Building it up
With sticks and firelighters
And bits of screwed up paper.
Then you'd wipe your nose
With the back of your hand
So as not to soot your face.

You'd sit awhile,
Watching blankly to see if it'd take hold.
Then you'd stand like a statue
Drawing it with a broadsheet.

*

I light them now.
I make a little castle with my peat briquettes,
Like it shows you on the firelighter box.
Then I sit with the poker,
Staring into a space beyond the flames.
My hand burning, my face burning,
And I wait until you go out.

Shock*

*Shock: Acute state of prostration accompanied by lowering of blood volume and pressure, weakening of pulse and respiration.

She glances over at the telephone.
Its silence makes her wonder
If it's still working.

A cigarette burns her fingers as it reaches the filter.
Without flinching, she lets it slip to the floor.

She raises her right arm, like a sword of justice,
And swoops down.
She feels nothing.

She does it again, and again.
She can hear the blood frying
As it spits at the fire.
A crimson arc sprays across the wall
Showering her mother's figurines on the mantlepiece.

Stumbling into the kitchen,
She wraps a tea towel around her gaping wrist,
Struggling to pull it tight.

Opening the back door, to get some air,
She is buffeted by the wind
As the door bangs on its hinges.

She walks down the drive
And out into the blackness.
The streets are deserted at this hour of night.

At home, a loose telephone wire
Whips the window pane,
As the wind blows rain
Like handfuls of grit against the glass.

^

Biography

David C. Croft was born in Batley, West Yorkshire in 1964. His poetry and short stories have appeared in: the US Literary Review, Cyphers, Envoi, The Haiku Quarterly, Lifelines 3, The Amnesty International Anthology "Human Rights Have No Borders", WP Monthly and the Independent on Sunday Anthology "IOS New Stories." His screenplay "Woman's Best Friend", based on the short story by the same name, is currently in development. He has lived in Dublin for the past eight years where he works as an art director and writer. He was previously published in EA8.