“A Quiet Black Wedding,” “The Broken must find the Broken ,” and “So Many Lengths of Time”

“A Quiet Black Wedding,” “The Broken must find the Broken ,” and “So Many Lengths of Time”

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Photo by Merri J on Unsplash

A Quiet Black Wedding

These arguments, the silences, were all a slow release

a practice run to make the death of us

this love we had, a little easier to finish.

We have come apart, the skin of us slide

to be faceless, naked, the bones of us stand free

our voices full of empty rooms

gas stations at midnight, last calls, hospital corridors.

Once we were a clean white piece of perfect paper

every time we argued, crumpled it, straightened it

it weakened

one day, not recognized, it was no longer of use

There is nothing wrong with that

We are so different in our wants, we have no choice

we are just dying

outside, fruit rots of the trees, fragrant, magnificent

the night is very soft.

The Broken must find the Broken

I cannot give up on her, she can be crude

stupid, demand

label every other woman as a threat

see safety in control, denial.

Not that it matters, I see it

as it is her brokenness, all I cannot unknow

that pulls me to her

how her father beat her, mother went cold

how despite it, because of it

she has shown a lifetime of resistance

insistence on transformation, remembrance.

She is more than she knows

she has become my amulet, charm

to keep the dead away, a root that keeps

growing in Winter, makes every day Spring

in defiance of everything, all facts, reason

all that is known.

She has shown me that compassion is love

I had no idea I had any.

At night when she thinks she is asleep,

next to me

I see her outside, a

lullaby of fire being drawn into her face:

How she wants to come in, unable to believe

that she is already here.

So Many Lengths of Time

Not long ago, when it rained, my son the goalkeeper would cry, stretch

his inadequate jersey

over his fingertips, solidify into statuesque misery.

Now, when the game moves from him in winter rain

the gap widens between him, his defense, the action being elsewhere

he knows it, the perfect limitlessness of each moment, what it means to be here

how much he has in front of him

he can see his future, his mother, father, wife to be

sister, his teenage friends, huddled around a wide screen tv

each immeasurable length of time, stacked so high

how they stretch, just for him, endless, painless, out toward the empty bleachers

over the

roof of the IHOP, the squat nineteen fifties’ veterans housing, into the pine.

About the Author

Alan Hill

Alan Hill works in the field of community development and immigrant settlement and lives in New Westminster, BC, Canada. His book 'In The Blood', was published by Caitlin Press in 2022.