Partial

 

Partial

 

What label can you sew

onto sleeves

for the slightly disabled

or special needs?

 

Like someone

in want of a patch

for a torn coat, a uniform,

lovelessly stitched,

and when picked at, rips—

gutted synthetic padding leaks—

she speaks.

 

Delivers dogma and diktats,

firm requests,

polite petitions,

final supplications—

 

from a far nation

bordering undiscovered countries

where mantras of Brexit

replaced the lotus prayer—

 

because they dared

so we must dare to stop them.

And he’s not coming back, of that

he feels certain.

 

He tried out his travelling feet:

left pointing due north,

right bound north-north-east—

shrugs—

it was always like this.

 

He’s twisted, out of kilter,

sloppy-angled, set square;

he cannot run, doesn’t care;

and if he swam,

right would always break surface,

cause a splash—

excuse me—must dash.

 

Except it’s not on the table,

never fleet of foot;

he recalls one hot day,

tramping up Valetta Way,

slopping in his shoes

and father blows a fuse:

excuse me, please,

I must refuse

to accept your pair of sandals.

 

Now—who is speaking?

A mind split into two voices:

one argues with

the other’s choices;

both can talk in far, far sunsets,

 

remember more

than they forget,

bring back words they should regret,

repent me of my fury.

 

Never shake your locks at me—

he studied hard and long,

dread books and more dreadful song:

why, yesterday, a blackbird

was fixing a hole

in tangerine skies.

Oh darling,

I must look through you,

so please, don’t pass me by.

 

Perhaps you felt you could try?

You had music in you,

words enough and time;

she’s in love with me

and I feel fine—

treading solitary that long

dark path up her mountainside,

 

where stories bubble brains—

slow-boiled black treacles

drip from wooden spoons,

sear flesh, rip wounds,

make red, crimson the face—

we got to get out of this place.

 

As driftwood, far out to sea,

maybe he gets lucky:

Blue waters calm,

a Chief, a Buffer,

a Master at Arms

rocks you in the Sargasso.

Tangling weed enough to stop,

propellor's locked,

so - maybe not.

 

The jury’s deliberating:

twelve good men and true -

all of them you.

So, tell me, in your defense:

what label can you sew

onto sleeves

for the slightly disabled

or special needs?

As we stand in front of

her Court Martial,

we judge ourselves—partial.