A mirror of things perished—on
the windward shore, fire beacons, set
to mark a death, a Queen or Khan
remembered for their silhouette
on battle flags, or coins, and now
paid tribute to, as times allow.
The names of the forgotten, yours
or mine, monotonous in stone
and mostly lies, confirm the cures
that failed, the howling in the bone
that scared the priest, the steady nurse
with morphine, pale men with a hearse.
Belief in immortality
presumes belief in life, beyond
the photo opportunity
and mortgage—the demimonde
of Instagram, of woke and raves
and lifestyles keeping pace with graves.
The preacher shakes his fist, and cries
Eternity or Bust, and dares
you look away, a choice of flies
or Paradise—the Devil bares
his backside, quoting from a book
that feeds upon the careless look.
That said, there is no remedy
or consolation—the vivid
humanity and import we
encounter on the shore, forbid
heroic tempers, here instead
the ash we gather with our dead.
Estill Pollock | Self-Portrait
Contents | Mudlark No. 74 (2023)