On the facing page boldly written in the blackest India Ink Dejesus read,
to sleep
where clay grafts
to thorn
Having no reason to quip he left the spot he was standing in and headed north easterly, the sun barely risen above the smokestack chimney. That day, a day like no other, Dejesus was to meet with the cock hawker to haggle and hem for a redbreast fighting cock, one of two that was up for sale for a prayer and a song. ‘…to sleep in the bellows of the sky, now that would be tricky indeed…’. The sun rose above the rooftops, a yellow orb, and sat high above the treetops. Dejesus, eyes fixed on the prickly edges of the yellow sun, spread open the morning news and read aloud, SDLP CALL FOR MAJORITY RULE, IRA Volunteers 'used as spies', British PM for key Belfast talks, Northern Bank trial opens, UVF assault raises feud fear, Strong turnout urged in Fermanagh by-election, Hunger strike over Shell pipeline, Durkan ensured SDLP will never share power, the wind ripping into the cuffs of his greatcoat sleeves. When he’d finished reading, the paper unfurling like a ship’s sail, he laid it on the bench next to his hat and closed his eyes. ‘…not in this lifetime, no never…’. He cleared his throat, a rumble deep in his belly, his thoughts on Fermanagh by-elections and Hunger strikes, volunteerism and majority rule, and fell half-asleep on the bench, the morning news flitting like a kite’s tail in the ripping morning wind.
The night’s slays lined up in neat orderly rows, natures’ green grocers summing up the evenings’ take, the alms man hungered for a fortnight, wondering if he’d see the sky before it fell earthward downward to the ground. ’…these are miserable times…’ he commiserated, ‘…and getting miserable by the fortnight...’. High in the morning sky Frigga spins a gray loom of clouds, the lot behind the Greek Deli awhirl with green jelly and yesterday’s spit-lamb. Fastening the clips to the soles of his shoes the alms man prepared himself for the day. He cut himself a cassock’s serving of bread, not Quaker’s loaf or Shabuoth rye, and ate slowly, each bite inventing the next until he’d had his fill.
After the wake the mourners gathered at the foot of the aqueduct, Dejesus telling the story about the boy and his dog and his mother, a slattern whore who lost her glove in a free-for-all at the Weatherman Inn. The boy ran away with his dog after his mother skipped town with a fat banker who never once said tomorrow. He took with him all those things he could carry on his back, his algebra notebook, a coil of old thread, his trusty penknife and enough dog food to feed both of them until they reached the westerly coast, a place he’d heard where a boy and his dog could find work shelving salt tins and mending crabbers’ nets.
to sleep
where clay grafts
to thorn
Having no reason to quip he left the spot he was standing in and headed north easterly, the sun barely risen above the smokestack chimney. That day, a day like no other, Dejesus was to meet with the cock hawker to haggle and hem for a redbreast fighting cock, one of two that was up for sale for a prayer and a song. ‘…to sleep in the bellows of the sky, now that would be tricky indeed…’. The sun rose above the rooftops, a yellow orb, and sat high above the treetops. Dejesus, eyes fixed on the prickly edges of the yellow sun, spread open the morning news and read aloud, SDLP CALL FOR MAJORITY RULE, IRA Volunteers 'used as spies', British PM for key Belfast talks, Northern Bank trial opens, UVF assault raises feud fear, Strong turnout urged in Fermanagh by-election, Hunger strike over Shell pipeline, Durkan ensured SDLP will never share power, the wind ripping into the cuffs of his greatcoat sleeves. When he’d finished reading, the paper unfurling like a ship’s sail, he laid it on the bench next to his hat and closed his eyes. ‘…not in this lifetime, no never…’. He cleared his throat, a rumble deep in his belly, his thoughts on Fermanagh by-elections and Hunger strikes, volunteerism and majority rule, and fell half-asleep on the bench, the morning news flitting like a kite’s tail in the ripping morning wind.
The night’s slays lined up in neat orderly rows, natures’ green grocers summing up the evenings’ take, the alms man hungered for a fortnight, wondering if he’d see the sky before it fell earthward downward to the ground. ’…these are miserable times…’ he commiserated, ‘…and getting miserable by the fortnight...’. High in the morning sky Frigga spins a gray loom of clouds, the lot behind the Greek Deli awhirl with green jelly and yesterday’s spit-lamb. Fastening the clips to the soles of his shoes the alms man prepared himself for the day. He cut himself a cassock’s serving of bread, not Quaker’s loaf or Shabuoth rye, and ate slowly, each bite inventing the next until he’d had his fill.
After the wake the mourners gathered at the foot of the aqueduct, Dejesus telling the story about the boy and his dog and his mother, a slattern whore who lost her glove in a free-for-all at the Weatherman Inn. The boy ran away with his dog after his mother skipped town with a fat banker who never once said tomorrow. He took with him all those things he could carry on his back, his algebra notebook, a coil of old thread, his trusty penknife and enough dog food to feed both of them until they reached the westerly coast, a place he’d heard where a boy and his dog could find work shelving salt tins and mending crabbers’ nets.
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