Poetry: Selections from Edward Lee

Ill

Those illnesses

that come and fade us,

as though our bodies

must be lighter

before we die

so our souls

can fit through the thin gates

of heaven, if it truly has gates,

if it exists at all, or the soul

for that matter.

 

I hate those illnesses

the most, having seen

the wreckage

of their touch

in your body,

your death only inches away

and yet seemingly more distance

than you can cross,

despite the prayers said

at your bedside

and in all the churches

where friends bow their heads,

believing in their belief.

Living

In her first gasp of pleasure

comes a name

that isn't his,

the truth leaking out

in this moment of exquisite weakness,

 

a weakness that

contains the strength

to rent asunder

all that they have

built together

in the eye of the storm

that their life was

from the very beginning.

 

But, he doesn’t hear

the wrong name, or

does but doesn’t care,

just continues on,

keeping loneliness at bay,

keeping silence from his ear,

keeping himself alive

simply by never not moving,

never not making some sound.

Blood a Poison

Before our father

was our father,

he was a father

to others, six

half-siblings

who hated us

with a passion

that can only be found

in blood,

 

our history

rewriting their future,

or our future erasing

their history, one

or the other, or

perhaps both,

 

cruel words born

in their heads

finding their home

in our unmoving mouths,

guilty of a crime uncommitted,

innocence seemingly something

we were incapable of

before we were able

to survive for ourselves.

 

What chance

did the possibility

of family have

in such mired circumstances,

even allowing for a family

as spread wide as ours?

 

No chance then.

No chance now,

the father gone,

the mothers too, almost,

blood a poison

that allows little hope

for survival.

Winners/Losers

Sometimes,

through pure fluke,

the loser writes the history.

or the winner simply

wasn’t paying attention,

comatose by victory

and all its benefits.

 

This history, it is

just as bitter

as that written

by the winner,

the winner, every winner,

so secretly unsure

they deserve the victory,

as the loser

is secretly sure

they deserve the loss,

most losers, anyway.

 

But does it matter

who writes the history

when we live in a present

where people seem to believe

what they wish to believe,

regardless of what is known

or what is believed to be known?

And does anyone read anymore,

or simply absorb what seems suspiciously

like poison in the air?

The Garden of the House You Spent a Lifetime Paying For

Your garden swelled

with weeds

as you faded

to bone, your body unable

to fight any longer,

just like the flowers

you tended

with loving care

unable to hold on

to the good of the earth

and their share

of the sun.

Edward Lee's poetry, short stories, non-fiction and photography have been published in magazines in Ireland, England and America, including The Stinging Fly, Skylight 47, Acumen, A Thin Slice Of Anxiety, The Blue Nib and Poetry Wales.  His play ‘Wall’ received a rehearsed reading as part of Druid Theatre’s Druid Debuts 2020. He also makes musical noise under the names Ayahuasca Collective, Orson Carroll, Lego Figures Fighting, and Pale Blond Boy.