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Board Administrator Username: mjm Post Number: 3360 Registered: 11-1998 |
Honorable Mention Last Night with Bothwell Laurie Byro we dragged our chairs, outside the sidewalk of the Mermaid Pub, and talked about the mythology of strangers. In the ‘90’s, he loved a girl he passed everyday along the walk on his way to work. He heard her humming under her breath, the stream with its gibberish concealed her tune; chattered while he hurried off to punch in. Now, in silence, he sees her when he cuts through the church green, eyes downcast— she is indelibly his, holding the baby, never releasing her bundle no matter how sweetly he asks. He left a pelt he tamed, stripped and savaged, at her feet, she refused to meet his eyes. At night, a mantle of wishes falls like cold stars. 2 I ignore the bowl of goldfish on my way out, knowing, I’ll be late again. I tell myself not to worry “I am just a little late” we would wait it out again—we would wait. In my flat, the phone rings and snow skitters through an open window and under the door. Snow drifts and words whisper through the receiver—please, imploring— please. I catch the tube at Charing Cross and cut through to Portobello. Tonight, outside that old pub, I listen once again to stories about a world I barely know,.from a man I know, but barely recognize. He will carry me, a candle clutched in my hand, past the stained glass warehouse and we will lie in the snowy light through the rose and amber “Lady of Sorrows” while incandescent flakes melt off my skin. Later, we will leave the window open and listen to the babbling stream of strangers passing on the sidewalk below. I will remember my fish. Their gold sparks will be ready to forgive me when I return home empty handed. Their gold light will greet me when I dip my finger in to stroke them, wild bodies troubling the water. |
