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Leopold and the Gods

Leopold. At the kitchen sink
with empty bottles and
unwashed memories.

Tuesday. There’s rage in the sky,
veiled as a grey-black cloud, pent-up
primed to pop, to plummet
and consume. Later,
it rains and Leopold
tells his true name to the ash bush
that will not budge.

Months later. Without.
Words are like rain in autumn,
too frequent, too desperate
to fall and be read.
Some are true, some are knives
meant only to cut.

Leopold. Now overtly elated,
listen lover. Everything.

In the morning the river
is near and the estuary flat.
He watches a small plane fall to land then vanish.
In the distance are high and full trees
encircling a manor house,
falling onto the house
as if hugging the place tight,
encasing and saving, protecting.

Lazarus. Nothing dead can wake.
No roses with crippled petals
can be given as gifts.
Just barb-sticks,
just finger-bleeders.

Icarus. It was heat.
The fire of that sickness,
with sweats and burning words.
‘They consume, don’t they?’
‘We consumed,’ Leopold says
as he scrubs the plate
and hums Inchworm
imperfectly, closing his eyes
at the image, ever-image,
of ill fate.


About michaeleganpoetry

Liverpool based poet and editor. I have had four pamphlets of poetry published, most recently After Stikklestad (Knives, Forks and Spoons Press, 2010). Penned in the Margins published my first collection, Steak & Stations, in 2010.

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