WAITING, FOR THERE IS NOTHING ELSE TO DO
We are all going to live forever, until we don't, that's life in a nutshell, says the drunk man at the bar, who arrived four drinks after I got here, who will leave before I do, long before. We are all going to live forever, until we don’t, and as I signal the barman for another drink I don’t want, but so desperately need, I order one for the drunk man, nod my head and raise my glass as he says thanks, his eyes not on my face but on something just over my shoulder, something in the deadened darkness of a pub in the empty hours of a winter’s day. THE ENDING IS EVERYTHING A lifetime of rain has left our skins wet, our clothes disintegrating when we undress, if we bother to undress or simply fall into our beds sleep claiming us before our bodies still. Someday the sun might rise and our skins will dry, shrinking us down to a size more manageable than the bloated beings we have become simply by living as we live, all the better for the world to drown us when the rains come again, as they will. as they always do, the ending of everything the only guarantee worth believing HISTORY With wounds that wouldn’t close he died for the lies of stupid men, never once opening his mouth to give his side of their story, or even to beg for mercy. Too clever to save himself, he let ignorance silence his heart, its last beats barely vibrating its tired shape. And now the men who would call themselves leaders, call themselves the only chance of any tomorrow, they are looking for someone new to hang, someone new to die so they themselves can live on beyond history. THE YEARS AHEAD ARE LESS THAN THE YEARS BEHIND Ants surround my bed like an honor guard or a deathwatch, I can't be sure which, the ants without voice to tell me their aim, the life I've led deserving both, though I know some people might disagree, but none of them are here, it is only the ants, their stillness like a shout in an empty room, their possible movement like a held breath, the realisation that they are not really ants still some unknowable time away. BURNING We press our faces against the glass, the distant fires attracting our eyes even as we doubt their reasons for existing, until we pass through, the glass not breaking, our skin untouched, as smooth as it has ever been, though, perhaps, drier than it should be, the world through the window now just the world, the home we did not treat as a home and yet one we have spent several selfish lifetimes building. Short Bio: Edward Lee's poetry, short stories, non-fiction and photography have been published in magazines in Ireland, England and America, including The Stinging Fly, Skylight 47, Acumen, The Blue Nib, Fevers Of The Mind and Poetry Wales. His play ‘Wall’ received a rehearsed reading as part of Druid Theatre’s Druid Debuts 2020. He also makes musical noise under the names Ayahuasca Collective, Orson Carroll, Lego Figures Fighting, and Pale Blond Boy. His blog/website can be found at https://edwardmlee.wordpress.com
Fevers of the Mind 