IN SICKNESS
Pain never goes away.
It settles down
on the darkest places
where it can fester
and get uglier.
In a year’s time,
it wriggles back
into the flesh and bones,
refreshed, empowered.
Your lungs have
barely recovered
and now, once again,
soft sleep currents
must give way to harsh
rapids of waking
at dark hours.
People say,
don’t be discouraged.
After a while,
they get discouraged
saying it.
BOATING IN THE SWAMP
As darkness oozes into swamp,
their similarities busy with mosquitoes.
I’ve misjudged the time.
Solid earth is farther than the stars.
With every insect bite,
my arms feel like human sacrifice.
Hands sweated to oar,
I row through reed
and mangrove,
floating islands,
from isolated backwater
toward the distant light.
The sludge below
assures the feel
of suspended animation.
I’m moving
but not enough to shake
the drip of heat,
snakes cozying up to boat,
the grunt of frog and alligator.
Home is my destination.
These waters define home differently.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Penumbra, Poetry Salzburg Review and Hollins Critic. Latest books, “Leaves On Pages” and “Memory Outside The Head” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in Lana Turner and International Poetry Review.
Bindweed Magazine 