january 15, 2012
listen up - click on the arrow
a place for terry mcdermott's writing
recalling her now is mannequin limbs.
a leg, a posed arm, a torso,
plastic hands that blur the separation
the real from surreal.
his memory isn’t hard edged and taut
anymore, and he can’t decide
if he needs her to live or die
whether he’s selfish or selfless,
an end is what he wants but
each night, he suspends ambiguities.
he calls on god to reverse time.
invert the universe.
rewrite his memories.
he’ll reconsider what he believes.
each morning, his plea falls back
to his cereal bowl, unheard.
red l.e.d. numbers, clicking clocks, digital
watches move as normal,
the same story as yesterday.
time disrupts god’s omnipotence.
the limits of christ.
followed by another and…
she has no name now;
he preserves memories he can’t forget
by un-naming her.
each day she is more fragments, pieces.
a collage of left behind.
he sees her hands at checkout counters.
her eyes in mirrored buildings.
legs as silhouettes through a white skirt.
her hair as warm shadows,
his lips pressed to her neck.
she’s an empty shell, frozen
on a beach icebergs drift by.
his love losing cohesion,
threads of the end dare him to pull.
he wanders at night, window shopping,
fascinated by mannequins being
redressed for the next day.
this is how he is getting on with his life.