Abstract
A One-Man Band Goes to Mass
He pushes the door and doors open; studded doors creak, half-mended doors swing, triangles of light fall on the pavements, the rocky hills. Quick dip in the font, notes flutter to the rafters, perch on the ledges. Left and right his elbows plead ‘I’m looking for a place, looking for a place’ and when two people part, sit back, the low note from the depths of his hat bends lower. Kneel down, One Man-Band, you’ve walked all day, your home is this floor, carved with names, beloved, not forgotten, rest in peace, names speak as you kneel, semi-quavers jump, fan out, you bend your head; a minor chord parts at the crossroads outside, the traffic slows. I confess. The drum on my back weighs heavy, the drums on my ankles leaden, Amen. Alleluia. He waits, the lost sheep on the hillside, cymbals shivering; we hold our breath as you climb, listening for the airborne longing, at last the horn sounds. Alleluia. I believe in the sound I make, the echo from the crowds, the syncopation of feet on the street. Now only the tinny rustle of listening; you kneel like a bell, look up like a drum skin. Bread lifts on the air with a crash, crumbs flee to the door, doors open.
An Undistinguished Biography
In an undistinguished biography, I read in 1846 the Choctaw Nation sent $273 to another small nation, Ireland, when the potato crop failed; people dying on the docks, arms outstretched. I try to not to skip the antecedents at the beginning of a memoir, so and so married someone beneath them, wore a tall hat and whiskers, made treaties and ruled India; it’s strange how people turn out. Oh you Choctaws, I don’t know you – we didn’t do you at school. I wish you had appeared earlier, your footprints on the wet lawn; a movement beyond the yew hedge; the far side of the hockey field. Now, through the grey English evening Do I start to see you? Palms held out, unsmiling, eyes speaking to an unseen horizon. smelling grief in a bird with three green wings.
Book of Condolences
Aloysius, you were a gentleman, can’t put my name. Good luck mate, you was all right – The Boys. With sympathy, Mike, Trace and all at the Phoenix Rd. Resettlement Team. Mr. W. Birkenshaw. (Curly) What’s the Guinness like up there? Have one for me, Moz. ‘This day you will be with me in Paradise’ You were grand on the spoons Blind Mary. Rest in Peace Lou, Addiction Services Room A. RIP Al, You’ll be missed. Lola B and all at the Dog and Partridge.
© Ruth Shelton