THREE POEMS by BEN RIDDLE
Couples Counselling
I wonder how you see me.
Whether you see me as some black mantis
murderer ripping heads off of lost lovers,
lying in wait and words; always hunting,
setting traps—
Whether you see me as a worm; wriggling,
writing my way into other people’s
stories, or yours. Burrowing; like
a parasite, a leech—
Whether you see me as a vampire, or
a vampire hunter at war with myself.
Whether you see hope in the bloody
stakes of my locker, or just macabre.
There is a room I ask
you do not go; I do science there.
I wonder how you see me.
Last Christmas
I didn't want to seat cancer at Christmas, but
it was with you, and I was never going to turn you away.
It is strange grieving for someone that is still
alive; that does not mean it is uncommon.
We do it for different reasons; some are simply
not the children we wanted, or
they are the children
we wanted, but they just turned out wrong;
or some went astray, awry. They wandered
into drugs, or desolation; into cults
like improv classes, scientology, or
they took mum's money and sold it for
the smack I'll give them
when we meet again (in this life of the next).
And yet; you sit there in all your hallowed,
hollowed glory, shining
like the miracle you are,
your lungs peppered with tumours that have
the good grace to let you sit with us
at Christmas. I never liked
your boyfriend.
He always reminded me of
an elephant seal; boisterous, swaggering,
eloquent only
if you cared to
speak his tongue of get rich quick schemes,
of cryptocurrent idolatry. I did not expect
him to stay, and while
I am mad at him for not proposing
while he can, he is welcome here; your cancer
is not. We make accommodations anyway,
change how we talk, laugh; eat,
how we pray, or what we pray for. It seems
strange to talk to God while
Cancer is in earshot. It feels like
getting caught gossiping about a bad
lover, lungful; about the parts of
a body that thought
they were doing right and betrayed you.
I didn't want to seat cancer at Christmas, but it was
with you, and I was never going to turn you away.
It was easier to set an extra place
than imagine
next Christmas without you.
“Why Am I Always Your Go-To?”
“And if we can’t trust our memories,
what then?”
Then I will trust my heart; listen
to the words I carry
in every vein; and if mine eyes
have become as liars
then let me live again
bound to my cardiac walls,
let me bleed merriment when
I think of you,
let me weep when
we are sick; let me breathe
adrenaline as my sighs ride
rollercoasters; dance
with glowsticks beneath
blankets with you.
And if I am just
a maladapted memory of yours?
Think of me well when
you wake up.
The most interesting thing about Ben Riddle is that he is putting together a little library of all the poetry he can find. The voices of poets go still too soon. He is the Director of Perth Underground Press.