Should I write this down?
I’m never sure what I should remember.
I did what?
Was that on Shannon Road?
We had two houses then,
the this place then that place,
the story being chopped cleanly in two
by a walk across the street.
I was eleven,
and then I was twelve.
That room with its pink and green
around a corner in the basement hallway,
windows up at a back yard,
poster of a kitten in a jar,
MY LIFE IS AJAR.
That message of a slight opening
a glance into somewhere
the thing that keeps you going,
you who rubbed your foot on the green carpet until it burned.
I can write for you now,
the words beetling over the surface
to give it lustre,
you staring at pink walls from a top bunk
still so dumbfounded.
Dawn Pearcey 2019
I was once a minor celebrity.
I wore zirconium teardrops
and rode in yellow taxis.
My walk of fame star
shone in night skies
a galaxy away.
My agent called me
on the edge of reason,
ready to disappear into any character.
Gone, gone, gone,
the cinema screen
absorbing and reflecting my light
in ways no viewer
can really remember,
except those threadbare rooms -
dolly zooming my presence
in dowdy motels and basement apartments,
that chintzy hospital ward.
look at this, look at that
keeping me in place.
sack of pretty pills slouching on tacky coverlet,
drunk hockey players banging on doors,
you sitting at window refusing final curtain,
you on service road heading east out of city,
you returning to city to a mall cafeteria,
cheap coffee and red vinyl bench,
what’s her problem, anyway
(waitress in orange & white polyester).
There will be no drama, no turning point,
just a bus ride back to a silent apartment,
and a let’s pick up where we left off.
My comeback awaits.
Dawn Pearcey 2019.
why not wrap yourself
in plush clouds of
take them out for cocktails,
dance them under disco stars
and an Empress moon.
snuggle close when the
and trumpets its tacky-suit
Dawn Pearcey 2019.