my breath reaches his neck –
but the heart is cold
he cannot see me
though he searches
through the streets
in the dark
in the mirrors
all the late sour hours
his custom
by the quays
by the river
over the bridge
driving
this way and that
the metre ticking
over like a count-down
I want to reach out
I want to say something
I want to say –
not sorry
sorry is such a pointless
and stupid word
it can’t carry the weight
the range of what I need
to say
to you
daddio
old man
you know how it was
hooked
brooked
bridged
and fucked
the last I know
it was a room
like any other
a score like any other
like all others
did the sun ever
touch me
if you could see me
you would see
through me
it was always thus
autumn in my soul
not your say
daddio
not yours
no
look at all these leaves
in my hands
in my arms
look at you throw
them into the air
and it looks
like laughter
but I can’t hear nothing
but the bubble
of speech bursting
like a pocket
of blood
charged with the smack
of all austere
father’s
ok daddio
forgive me
for all the light
it floods this cab
like the sun
in winter
for some of us
that’s all we need
its gentle bright
twinge
its annihilation
ice cracks
underfoot
walk with me
go on
get out of this black car
I say so
but when I move
nothing
there’s nothing
a movement
no
the gesture of movement
I step out of myself
to nowhere
daddio
I’m not there
and if you know
I’m not
why then
keep speaking to me
why daddio
keep
telling me
love will save me
when it never did
Paul Perry is
the author of 5 full length collections of poetry including Gunpowder Valentine: New and
Selected Poems, and
two pamphlets of poetry. A recent recipient of the Patrick and Katherine
Kavanagh Fellowship, and co-author to 4 Karen Perry best-sellers, including the
Penguin published The Innocent Sleep. The
Ghosts of Barnacullia appears from above/ground press, 2019. He directs the Creative Writing Programme at UCD.
the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan
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