Michael Brennan Poems

The world was already the world
and we were looking for ourselves.
Like something mispronounced
we kept repeating our names,
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The old man fumbles with his keys,
The waiter appears embarrassed.

‘I don’t want to talk about love any more,
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Stained glass on a winter’s day. I read your diary backwards.
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Tea hot in the cup, the sugarbowl empty and, yes, rain beginning to fall outside.
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Don’t worry too much, it’s all taken care of.
That’s what the city tells you. You’re goo-goo about it,
fresh off the boat, looking to be the grit in its dozen oysters
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It’s true the mirror was in love, finding itself in every face.
It was not a function of syntax. His life was slurred.
Yes, it’s true, the heart hid in the dark with the dream of light.
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It was days later. Not long after we left the convent
and the war stopped. I promised to take her
directly to the train station, but the sight of her
on the backseat scrambling out of that uniform,
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I should tell you, it’s nothing like home.
Not one of them thinks of me as a stranger,
but they politely welcome me to their houses,
and feed me delicious feasts.
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Nipples hard as bullets, that’s how her way
With words put it. There wasn’t much
Left to say after that, with the ferry leaving
At four. Given good traffic, I’d be home
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PRESSED BETWEEN two atmospheres, fatigue swelling in your eyes you rise up and face day, the intrigue of chance cast in the air, a face you assume, a name of so many syllables, so much history. Erstatz-coffee drawn from
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I had drifted out far beyond
ill-reputed water metaphors
tipped off by a cunning editor.
Careful not to turn oceans to sand,
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