Poem by Mary Germaine
Who knows the name of the empire that took your arms, or the earthquake
that left you to climb your way, legless, to the top of the rubble.
Only your lucky friends became mosaics. Others
were ground to composites for IKEA Kitchen countertops.
Of course, you have had some work done: two iron
posts replaced your iliac crest, oh, it was centuries
ago. And more recently, you were endowed prosthetic arms
reaching the whole length of the breathless hall gallery. Reclining,
you charge the light, and the light adheres. You wink
with every inch for the people milling past.
As I turn to go, you archly say, Hey. Don’t let
the grind get you down, babe. And I think I see
something else sputter and dissolve in your clean cut throat.
In the museum restaurant, a man finishes a spicy lunch.
He takes out a corner of your mouth, or maybe half your formidable
brow (who knows?) chews it up and leaves a bit of foil on the table.
ABOUT THE POET
Mary Germaine studied philosophy at Memorial University of Newfoundland before moving back to Toronto for her MA in English in the field of Creative Writing. Her work can be read in Riddle Fence 27 and elsewhere. She is the recipient of the Adam Penn Gilders Scholarship in Creative Writing, which was established by Adam’s family and friends in his memory to support and encourage emerging poets, fiction writers and playwrights at the University of Toronto.
