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What a wheeze!
To be pulled, headfirst,
Inside out, twisted
And knotted like a human balloon.
My guts spill out onto the road
For dogs to lap and crows to pick.
But I rise
Beyond the appalled onlookers,
The taxi drivers and bin men.
I rise
Above the media hubbub of firemen
Strikes, wars and failed
Marriages.
I can see the dark crucifixes
Of sparrows, crows and hawks
Beneath me.
The road is like a river,
Cars are like toads, people hoverflies.
Everything is always something
Else.
At this height even the air
Seems arbitrary.
So what if I left you.
So what if you screamed the house down.
So what if the neighbors heard.
So what if I no longer love you.
Or you me.
What difference does it make
If this road is a river
Or a road,
Or the green-blue veins standing out
On the back of my hands,
On the back of my raw and swollen
Bloody hands?
Andrew Boobier's work has appeared or is forthcoming in various publications, including The New Yorick, Orbis, versus, The Rue Bella, The Schuylkill Valley Journal, Smorgasbord, Poems Niederngasse, Eclectica, and Snakeskin. He is the editor of the Alsop Review's online quarterly magazine, Octavo (http://www.alsopreview.com/octavo).
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