poetry | Tom Lee

Bilge Pump

her charitable gestures have become leaden snakes
now that my feet have warmed
she scatters fresh crimes beside the thick smoke
the sky of doubtful conservation weeps
as we exhale the smells of ham and wet pickle
warm air holds itself on a rim
she sits on a stump, heavier than a piano
hands that burn the side of your face
a cough from which goodness multiplies
the unfinished pole hyperventilates
each rancid memory and miracle glows
festoon, gigabyte, banana, pouring out the olives
    and broken glass
each scream echoes down the drain
and bubbles up in the tank as though it were someone’s skull
or a peacock on a brick chimney
an old slide rots by the pines
a silent rasping I can’t be botheredness
you have zero imagination and put your phone on the table
slicing the tomato with a car key in your lap

© Tom Lee

Overland 190–autumn 2008, p.80

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