They weren’t struggling as much as expressing disappointment,
those hands, fish flapping in the mud, the stringer through their gills,
the little boys proud as the river’s roaring white froth of joy,
those arms, trees bent down by the giant foot of the wind,
branches twisted toward a sun that promises more than it delivers,
the young men discovering uniforms in grandfather’s attic closet,
those legs, broken columns left behind by extinct wars,
smoke from factories smudging the thin ridges of marble,
a father beating the truth into a son with memories,
that throat, a rope of its own tightening around silence,
just enough so the confessions are kept secret inside,
a tale of bewilderment when once there had seemed invitation,
the man, grief, heavy clay that won’t let go of his feet,
those eyes, wrinkled as a heart left out to dry in the sand,
that body unable to get out of bed, lungs filling with abandoned tears,
that ghost who finally understands.
Glenn Halak
I started writing poetry and painting very early, inspired by my great-grandmother’s poetry and painting. I love images that carry me up into the dark. I get writing and paintings out into the world, three children’s books, plays, an online book of poetry, prose, but it’s the process of interaction with what’s real, surreal, unreal and unimagined that keeps me going.
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