Michele Waering

Might pink roses keep her there that birthday?
She told me it was just another scare that birthday. 

She told lies about her age; her health was open,
yellow-faced, beyond repair that birthday. 

He told me lies about the hospital, 
the how, why and where that birthday. 

I tracked her to a white-sheeted bed, a
daughter-wolf scenting the air that birthday. 

Your hands feel so cool on my forehead —
there was morphine for her care that birthday. 

A boat rocking gently, lightly moored in mist,
slips from the knot, glides past his stare: that Birthday. 

Are you not proud of her, Michele? Proud to know
her soul released her from his snare that birthday



Michele Waering

The onslaught of news, coloured, unpretty reality
foisted on gentlefolk. We get gritty reality. 

Jump in a fountain, drink champagne in Rome!
Swing past year zero, glam Monica Vitti reality. 

Teenaged angst, love and sex, finders-keepers;
will they ever get beyond glum-zitty reality? 

Bowler-hatted men take to the air; sit
part-man, part-birdcage to make Magritty reality. 

Concrete reality, real slum lords, drugs
render children compliant to shitty reality. 

The occasion is the thing — magic blooms
defying science — serendipity reality! 

The worst days, casualties mount, careless
money hikes quotas; those days, I pity reality. 

Look past vortex and crossroad, Michele. Each soul
is known, will merge in perfect unity: Reality.