A page almost flew out of my notebook
on the top of that building, as
if to say, as if to cry –
“Here is you falling. Watch me fly
on the breeze over all these buildings,
these honeycombs of life, of human beings
living, surviving, creating —
focus on me when I look like foil,
serenading chaff in the dying sunlight
with the twilight of the city
starting to blossom into neon flowers.
signs that beg you, One More Day.
One More Day.
This notebook isn’t finished yet, there
are still pages to fill with words, with
the words only you know, the ones
learnt in all that hurt and
so what if if if
you can’t write for shaking hands,
this seismograph on the last page
isn’t a good way to leave. It
won’t help heal the wound. An
earthquake can’t stitch the ground up.
You can’t keep ripping out my pages.”
But, it tumbled back
back into the fluorescent lights
and the roadmarkings guiding
running up ten flights of stairs
with one arm out to
catch the poem
and one arm out to
catch the poet.
The page unfurled like
a parachute in her grip.
I want to cut out every word
on that page, except a few
so all that’s left is
i want to live.
Rhys Feeney is a British-born poet living in Wellington, New Zealand, where he’s a recent graduate of English Literature and Film Studies from Victoria University. His work has previously appeared in blackmail press, The Rising Phoenix Review, Silver Birch Press and Ology Journal. He’s a cat person. More of his work can be found at https://rhysfeeneywriting.tumblr.com