Mirror Spirit

Posted on by
1

It had been five years almost to the day, and still they remembered the ashes. The terms of his will had been obeyed. His ashes, separated by weight into equal portions, had been spread on the pavements in front of each of his three wives’ houses.
The ashes had long since blown away or tracked indoors. Better not to think much on it—go on living and remember him the way he is; that is, not at all.
The children, some his by birth and others by mutual affinity, saw each other rarely.
The strangeness of running into each other caused them to wonder what they had in common and imagine it was him.
It was a false imagining. No one had ever known him in a way another did. He had been a spirit mirror, not to cheat or change anyone—especially not himself.
He existed only in relation to those he loved. He had been a mirror for each of his wives’ spirits. One remembered him laughing at dawn in hides waiting for spoonbills. One still reached for legal arguments she knew he’d enjoy. The third kept the daube mouton recipe they had developed together.
A son who enjoyed being difficult remembered him as a high-flying mental buddy. A daughter remembered him as an enthusiastic follower of the sport in which she excelled.
His father had died when he himself was very young. He worried all his life that he had failed to do something—he didn’t know what—that would have kept his father alive.
His mother sensed other people’s feelings. He observed their interests.
She knew he was observant. She asked him did he not feel horrible about poor old Mrs. Cazel’s fall in her hen house? Didn’t he feel wonderful about Mr. Jones’ winning a holiday for his family?
He had not. He had had his own feelings and emotions—about girls, and fantasised heroics.
He enjoyed mirroring. It pleased him to try on another person’s habits, the way an actor enjoys a new role.
Those he had liked enough to mirror remembered only the reflection of their own spirits.
I wonder if he ever knew whether he liked it.

November

Posted on by
2

I rise before light—pad through the dark,
down stairs my bare soles know by tread.
I dream until the rain alerts my scalp
outside the unlatched wire-screened kitchen door,
then walk, still waking, through the morning dew.

The hill beyond the pasture houses hens,
and to their left, against the trees, lie pens
where pigs are kept, for butchering today.
Frank’s .22 to stun, a rag-wrapped knife
and kettle wait here with the kindling wood.

The hill, too steep to dam the drizzling rain,
accepts my farm boots’ purchase. I ascend,
not thinking much of piglets in the spring,
except they’re dirty; less of roasted pork.
I tell myself to see today as work.

My cousin’s here. We single out a sow;
Frank fires point-blank,
the muzzle jammed against her thrusting forehead.
Her eyes stay small. She staggers, then she falls.

Unwrap the knife. It warms its cold sharp blade
in blood. At last the rolled eyes close.
We talk while chaining her hind hooves,
then winch her heavy weight until she hangs.
Hanging there, her head is horrid, huge.

The steam from tumbling entrails bathes my face.
I hold the zinc tub, wondering if I’ll faint,
and find I don’t. We add wood to the fire.
We scald the carcass, shave it head to tail.
The knife and axe carve cutlets, chops, slabs of fat—
skin slick with water, still warm beneath the blade.

The watery sun comes up.
The crows across the pasture chance a flight.
There’s breakfast on the wind that blows our way,
aromas: bacon, coffee.
He tells me I’m a man now that I’m ten.

Rendering Services Until All

Posted on by
Reply

A shark! I love boiled shark on Boxing Day.
Shriven, curried, served up with a salad.
The shark tin covers show one in a bay
but I know only the dish and an old ballad.
—Amor Yangtze, November 2012

You! Shark! Fierce creature of a nether god.
Taker of human life. Wondrous murderer.
Possessor of nothing admirable or cuddly.
Renderer of family values. Destroyer.
Eater of dolphin and human young.
—Fo Wee Islands chant 1982

RENDERING SERVICES UNTIL ALL
—Sign on lawn of Connecticut crematorium

‘The shark cuts through the pale and wriggling coffle
of little swimmers’ legs. It snags its lunch.’
‘No joking here!’ the Editor shouts. ‘That’s offal!’
I grab my coat, walk to my boat. I crunch
braincells seeking words for why sharks munch
on us—consuming kiddie kidneys, you,
me, and John Q. Public in its stew.
—Key Largo Standard, 13 August 2004

Couple halves, survivors of radial surgery,
spend their insurance and remaining days
of considerable pain in perpetrating perjury.
They lump sharks and conger eels and rays
into one blackened bubbly bouillabaisse.

They show pictures of spouses long deceased.
Their rictus smiles—wry, rough-stitched creased—
swing to ‘Go’ the referendum ballot.
Sharks will be as rare as ambergris.
—Note sealed in Jack Daniels bottle found in the industrialised no-go area formerly known as Great Barrier Reef, July 2003


To win the war on nature will require
destruction of the shark’s birthplace and byre—
the brine even sharks no longer drink.
Our campaign plans to give each man a sink,
a toilet, and one weapon that we think
will make the difference. When each family gets
a chemical plant we’ll see what that begets.
—National Security Council memo, 06/06/2005

The owners of America and its government
sit down together to review the facts.
Our long-life heavy fishing nets are good
enough to break the feeding bottoms up.
Drag lines, steel gaffs, and giant onboard freezers
reduce fish fleets below the critical mass
so they die out. That rubs out the sharks.

Wets and huggers of flora want a pause
but we who are present know that short-term yields
require aggressive progress …
—Briefing for the President, begun 23/12/2012