Holy Ash
my father applies to my forehead, every night I'm home, I mean
in the house of my parents,
with slow circular rubs of his thumb; as a man
may discover and cherish
the tender button
between the thighs of the woman
he loves. And now my father is whispering in rhythm
words I cannot understand
– his own eyes closed,
the act is of urgent gravity, a holding
in place of ourselves,
in this room, in this house, in this country
he came to forty years ago and which puts forth
the reflex
shyness in me once he finishes,
kisses me on the mouth, and we embrace
on the unlit landing,
one of us
standing, to make room, a step above the other.
* * *
Today
I think (I have to)
– does this help? Am I saying the right thing? –
it's no
mountain to climb,
more
a subsidence, or falling asleep;
nothing
will
can effect
can work,
and neither do you
want a void a blank some bollocks
about emptying, purgation, simplicity
– what you're after
is a warm bit of nonsense,
a sloka that swims
away from the mind and its mad,
daffodil-obsessed
eye; today
turns soft and rots,
the tiny actions that remind you of yourself and that you're alive
disappear; yep,
procrastination is a way
not of killing but reassuring oneself
of time, of all
that's lost now
you're brisk as a root,
unurgent