(For Ian, Again)
Old enough to remember.
Your silence woke me.
Lights out. Nobody at home.
His hand got stuck in the postbox.
In the dream, you made me go to the front.
You can’t return what you stole.
Each heart, side by side with night.
He hunts himself.
Liquid from both ears.
Were there receipts for slaves?
The petals were bait.
I was untouchable; you were unreasonable.
A friend knows when to turn the lights out.
Briefly, wounds are touched.
They themselves are proof.
Show me a pub with no fear…
A pool in the liver in which to drown.
It’s not my business, but it pays.
You’ll never sleep alone.
Nightmare: everyone stayed.
Atheists feel like bastards sometimes.
So many feet! So slowly!
We are all going home.
Again and again and again and a gain and…
In your dream, you were still alive.
In one night. All.
Inspired by the poetry of Ian McBryde, particularly his book of one-line poems, Slivers (Melbourne: Flat Chat Press, 2005).
Matt Hetherington is not a poet, but he writes poetry, and has so many sides he’s round. He lives around Melbourne, Australia and his last book of poetry was called I Think We Have (Small Change Press, 2007).