Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
Dispatches for the Colonial Office

                                                Surgery in Three Parts


                                                 1 - Fear for Tomorrow

I don’t know what will happen to her tomorrow -
The anaesthesia and the surgical trauma
Invading all those organs compromised
Compromised by age and failing health

There’s a contract coffee bar in the lobby main
One could savour a coffee and a croissant
While waiting for a messenger of life or death
Does anyone know where the chapel is?

A marriage should not end in ICU
In the echoing chants of “Code Blue…Code Blue…”

                                          2 - Fear for Today

Morning is filled with possibilities
But today…
Morning is fraught with possibilities

                                           3 – Deo Gratias

The surgeon and the RN visit me
In a cold-as-a-morgue fluorescent-lit room
With their masks loose about their necks
To report that all went well

hid a poem in a tree in
the woods
but they cut it down
to just a couple of words

Please
Turn towards me
I want to store your words
In the broken parts of my chest
Let them roll around my head
And tumble down my cheeks
Wrap them around me
Like the hugs I will never feel again.
Have them caress the parts of me
Only you are allowed to touch
Give me you
In a way beyond physicality
I want what buzzes in the spaces
Between your blood and bone
I want you.

I read a book once-
a story so captivating I couldn’t put her down.
Her edges grew tattered, her pages creased.
I etched my name into her front cover
so long ago you can barely see it.
I recite her words to myself even when she isn't near,
My favorite pages covered in notes only in my mind because I'd never ruin her that way,
Her paper so worn,
it’s as if I sharpened a blade that now cuts my fingers,
simply because I refused to stop reading.
I read a book once-
a story so captivating
I couldn’t accept its ending,
so I reread her, again and again,
like my heart could change the ink.

there is a part of me that nobody knows  
except you  

I keep it under lock
strapped down and chained  
starved, pale and gaunt  

to quiet it  

to silence it from calling out in the still  

to **** it if I could  
and be done with it  

only for you to undo me with a whisper  
with words in a line,  
with a memory  

that throws off my desperate restraints  
lays waste to my barricades  
and breathes fire into me.  
making the chaos so full and loud  
inside me  
that it suffocates me  
and i cannot breath  
or cry out  
or find relief  
except to surrender.  

a beautiful unraveling  
of skin and bone  
that strips me down to my soul and fragments  
to give everything that I am to you.  

with a whisper you could tear me down to atoms  
you are my beautiful destruction

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
Dispatches for the Colonial Office


                                           Died While Trying

                                  (prompted by an idea by Nagi)


                     “Every day you play with the light of the universe”

                                                 -Neruda

          
The glory of killing an old man already dying
Is heralded by the clinking of colorful medals
As a president is helped into his Mercedes
By white-gloved lieutenants wearing golden aiguilettes

The old man dying in his bed was a challenge to evil
Through the love-letters of freedom he wrote to the world
Ambassadors of hope that could not be recalled
Just as a subtle injection cannot be withdrawn

A flowering of ideas in verses freely exchanged
Crushed beneath boots polished by frightened houseboys