I’d not collude with anyone’s delusions.
I always called a spade its proper name
and could grasp its purpose well enough
when something needed burying.
Wasn’t I the first who pointed out
how we could die with him?And in broad daylight
that was, well ahead of Simon acting
all dramatic at the dinner table.
He’s dead, I said, so don’t you let him down
by making myths of what you want to hope
about a man who always told the truths
he saw, however hard they were.
Someone had to dig them out.I thought
that I could get the very leverage
I’d need by resting on a point of substance
and blunt impossibility.
But when I set my hand to it then something
yielded to my touch and all the firmness
of my former grip was lost: and, yes,
I do remember how it felt.
by Mike Bartholomew-Biggs
These posts are by guest authors for Fulcrum