Monday, 13 June 2016

A poem by Lindsay McLeod


I learnt at some length the limit
to how long you can fight with,
who you once fought for,
right up until her carnivorous
departure chewed a hole right
through me like a rat through

a flaking asbestos wall which,
is in itself kind of ironic because
years later she fell back to me,
just for a visit mind, to tell of her
surrender to cancer, showing me
the x-rays and all, the two almost

perfectly round stains in her
that looked for all the world to
me like separate wedding rings
that could not be removed.
I don't know what they looked
like to her. I didn't ask.

Lindsay McLeod trips over the horizon every morning. He has won several prizes and awards and stuff for poetry and short fiction and published his first co-authored poetry collection, My Almost Heart, in 2015. He currently writes on the sandy Southern edge of the world, where he watches the sea and the sky wrestle for supremacy at his letterbox. He prefers to support the underdog. It is presently an each way bet.

1 comment:

  1. wonderful poem, Lindsay. As always you make connections that stun. Language comes alive.