It's Your Face, Your Face... Poem by GRANT FRASER

But I didn't know you
were only two and a half,
when they took it,

this guy at work asks
me what I want it for,
what good, what use,
why?

nearly forty years past
I saw you on green cover,
just a pretty face among others,

I wasn't looking for you
it was the other guy,
with the thick mop of hair,
and death was the whole
dominion...

cause you were all dead
apart from the Jew,
who couldn't leave
his body for a million dollars,

how would I have escaped..
anyway I ended up
with your collected poems,

but your face it kept following
me around,
and I needed a woman figure,
to help me endure,

but your poetry cut me up into
chunks of blue,
and good stuff too,

and the green picture well I wanted
to enter somewhere,
the wound..especially,

the sliced off thumb,
hide the respective knives,
I can't look at them
juxtaposed,
it's like they're morsing
out messages,

nothing could be this sharp
to the average mind,
but it would seem you never made
it out of the kitchen,
and that kind of haunted everybody,

I mean lets face it
I imagine thousands
have mooned around in there,

but your lines continue to sew,
everything back together
and I still long to know,
what it actually is,
as Somehow I've learned
to court death, a little longer,

sound's sinister I know,
but you know S*****
I can't help it - it's your face,
your beautiful ******* face,
and the total abrupt way
in which you left us...