Orphaned Islands (Un)poetry

Margaret shouldn’t have got the job
by logic she was runner-up
second choice
second best.
Her references were good
but swiss cheese work history
solid with gaps
“ chefs,” she shrugged beaming
it’s what we do, work and travel
travel and work
a great ticket to see the world.”
Despite the willing vivacity
there was something of an underdog about her
backing the underdog such a human reflex.
She got the job.

In other times she would have been labelled gay
she had that quality. Gaiety.
Happy
hard-working
bossy in an endearing way.
An individual. An unreformed smoker who enjoyed football
and rode a motorbike, 650cc
arriving and departing cigarette in one hand
helmet in the other.

The delegation stood at the door
three
two or more, storm clouds. Always.
“ about Margaret
could you speak to her …….. about body odour.”

It wasn’t easy. She was unaware and hurt.
How is it that summer can end abruptly
passing directly to winter without autumn
cold and dark.
Standards declined. Sick days rose.
Counselling. Warnings. Dismissal.

Six months elapse to an unexpected question
“how old was Margaret?”
39, recall thought
a quiet woman wonders if this is her
in the back pages
‘Margaret…..
…..unexpectedly
……graveside service today 2 p.m.’
it is yesterday’s paper.

If only
perhaps.
Later I learned of the psychiatric history
and admissions
It relieved me of the stalking guilt.

John was different from other backpackers
older by a decade
or more
the longitude of his face
mapped much experience.
The eyes of a soldier
returned from war …. but not to peace.

Alaska was home
Unspoken, but understood not to have always been.
Work summer
travel winter
the state which displaced Texas
was that kind of place.

Coincidence can randomly tumble combination
opening the vault.
A casual conversation
about significant mountaineering landmark
a first ascent of North America’s highest peak.
Cobalt bleached eyes gaze through the pause
stepping into the silence
a low hypnotic recitation
the voice of God.

The mountaineer had come into his workplace
for late, fine tuning purchases
just in case fuel
extra food
transactions settled by a pretty Japanese assistant.
The climber turned to leave….. then back to the woman
speaking their native tongue.
softly asking if she will
“ No.”
The request shifts to spiritual
a salesman’s plausibility
“it could be the last time.”
“No.”

The ascent was bold and direct
archaeology confirmed the summit
a telephoto lens
anticipated glory’s eve
He was never seen again.

Memories, often perpendicular to intimacy
those with whom time was patient
or circumstances liberal
decompose to unimportant
consigned to off-site lock-up
tombstones promised faithfully
visited aftermath fleetingly – then not at all.
Or placed in the spare room
walked by each day without reaction
and others not really known
loiter in the foyer of consciousness
leaping into being at the flimsiest of coincidence.

In five years less than 10 hours
would have been spent alone with her
perhaps as much again in group company.
Mid 1960’s cool granny spectacles
and bobbed auburn fringe
pungent tongued
dangling earrings swinging in laughter
or flicked with contempt
keeping time with anecdotes unfurled in the Midwest drawl.

She was 34 on introduction
six years older
difference serrated by divorce
and fluency in worldspeak
scaled age beyond appearance.
When cancer won hand-to-hand combat with chemotherapy
42 thought 48, young, brutally young.

Stories, there were so many
in response to the inevitable question upon meeting
she replied, “ a painter
but support myself as a goldsmith
just as surgeons have gynaecology for a hobby
and make their money from obstetrics.”
Quite.

When I heard she had died
the one about her mother came to mind
it lingered unwilling to leave.
Her mother she told us at coffee
once threatened to commit suicide
“so I went to the kitchen
got the sharpest knife
and said there do it.”
An epitaph mocking death
she would like that.