by Simon Cockle
Sat 12th Nov 2016
A portrait of you will hang somewhere.
We will be struck by the stark contrast
of light and dark at first, as if a figure
were illuminated by lightning on a moonless
night. We note the face lit from below,
so that the neck bulges to hide the Adam's
Apple, and the cheeks, puffed out as Mussolini.
The lips are pursed as if to mock but
the eyes narrow to a threat. The brows
become wisps of cloud and the hair is pulled
forward so as to affect an anvil.
But, in the nothingness that surrounds you,
the imagination runs riot. Here we may see
the black rubber jackboots of cops in pursuit,
the cells on Death Row after lights out,
stealth planes silent at the edge of space,
the insides of bullet chambers and graves,
waiting to be filled by the innocent, the guilty,
and the bodies that hang by their necks
from trees in the cool breeze of a Southern night,
perfumed by jasmine.