ROBIN BLACKBURN MCBRIDE

She Was Quiet That Night                                                  
                                     after Michael Ondaatje

He talks like the crow squawks
squares in round holes,
friction, a time tangle,
Orion drops his belt.

He talks like the paint shrivels on a rusty railing,
like a stylus spinning static at the end of an album
like a scratchy scarf under the coat you’re sweating in,
like the thwack in a sleeping pill taken three hours ago
and you want to move—to wake up,
but you can’t, and you can’t fall back either—

like a hangnail pulls
like a plate of skewered beef brought raw
and you wonder, was this on purpose?
Should I send it back?
Does the server know?

He talks like Little Boy Blue got the message too well,
and blows, and blows,
like a seatbelt buckled on the dental chair
like a local anaesthetic threatening general,
like a black planet you must wait for in its slow orbit,
like a fence where the chained dog never shuts up.