Dialogue with Myself

By on Nov 11, 2013 in Poetry

Crying newborn in front of a field of cows

Many years ago — born —
dairy country —
grandparents all dead —
mother, youngest of thirteen,
more cousins than cows —
born — same moment
when a drop of rain fell,
two hands squeezed a bovine teat,
a mango toppled from a tree —
a cool ocean breeze —
the smell of ginger from the nearby factory —
all grandparents in the ground —
none to pat the baby’s head,
none to get drunk in the celebration,
slip and stumble on the stairs —
even my father, a few months to live —
what’s the story? life’s that short, that cheap? —
I burst into consciousness,
blood and flesh and eyes and
unfolding tiny crumpled fingers
I could live forever at this rate —
but a generation’s already boxed
and on its way to being forgotten —
the next prepares to follow —
no guarantees, just breath
and the sound of my own voice screaming —
it has to do —
sometimes it’s enough




John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. He was recently published in the Tau, Studio One and Columbia Review with work upcoming in Naugatuck River Review, Examined Life Journal and Midwest Quarterly.