Death around the corner
and death beneath the skin
have nothing at all to do, Sir,
with where I saw it begin.
A child with tested eyes
taught me where to look;
It wasn’t in upside-down skies
or behind the coat on a hook.
It wasn’t under the bed, Sir,
or rasped from the radio,
or in the night of furniture
that creaked until dawn, no
It wasn’t in the usual places,
Sir, that’s what surprised me too;
the window where horror gazes
framed this unfabulous view:
A head closing in from above
first wearing the maternal grin
hardened his eyes to love,
told him that life is to win
From another his bread and butter;
where love is love of the womb
to lose is to face without supper
the selfless walls of his room.
From hot home of the flesh,
cool doom of quickening sin
woke death up with the wish,
Sir, to be severed under the chin.
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