Shallow Chair by Grant Tarbard

The pleases in me are weaved, a ballet
of dense bones, ill-lighted, a chest, a chair,
a fork with which I turn the soil as well
as I turn game about my dull knife. What
pleases me is wasting to vapours. In
sound, time’s cruel hag cackles beneath the bay
varnish of the blistering table, her
grazing tongue curls about my knotted blow
of shoulders and, unvarnished, sighs softly;
do nothing but age in a shallow chair.
By sight, the soot of my watery eye
is a tempest, scratched palms of red roses
grasping in the early hours for just one
please, itching the angry wolves in my bones.

Grant Tarbard
Grant Tarbard is internationally published. His collection As I Was Pulled Under the Earth, published by Lapwing Publications, is available now.

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