A POEM BY ELIZABETH GREGORY
This city of identity, what else do you own.
A home is not a home, a house is not a home,
scratch into the walls as they scratch out their eyes.
Here is where I lost mine.
You are a giant in a tomb,
pressed short breaths against clay walls,
frightened of the groaning and the screaming,
the dormant giant stops breathing.
The reflection, my friend,
my dear friend, hello, sweet friend, hello,
how much you know your friend, how much you know,
sweet friend with the tears on the bench.
Words blacker than the black gravity which consumes.
He says, I am with you every step of the way,
and she cries, I am always stood by your side,
and then she screams, You have saved my life.
Here in this city of identity, I am dead.
Cobweb memories sink into mercury,
I feel the suffocated ribs, sharper than usual, I drink,
this city of nerves, a palpable twitch.
What is left of that? Only a cowering, sad creature,
shaking, seething, rejected, angry. Laughing.
She knew you’d come back, she knew it,
with a man between her legs she knew it,
and with the soft kisses she knew it,
and she is frightened.
The blackness is eternal.