In the browning light of old age
we knew we hadn’t anything to know.
We were in that dismal afterglow,
legs bent, hands turned up like flower heads.
You hummed through our home, like the dying
fridge we hadn’t fixed. Ommmm
followed Ommmm in apropos. Young minds
still haunted old bodies. Our bones knew
their myth, a stumbling maze of unsureties.
We balanced for years, flamingo-legged,
ape-armed, hippo-breathed, swaying
in nothing but our aging skins. Ommmm
seemed the only real word between us
when noise was all too easy. We drank
through clumsy weddings, births,
too many funerals, decided to abandon
those unrelenting worlds.
Only that sacred sound, Ommmm,
reverberated through the seas,
the estates, our skulls and brainwaves.
We waited for death to find us, but each day
the city made its own beginning,
our bodies cracked their own shells,
and that dismal light unmade us.
Russell Jones is an Edinburgh-based writer and editor. He has published 4 collections of poetry and edited 2 poetry anthologies. He has also published travel writing, short stories and research. Russell writes novels for young adults, and has a PhD in Creative Writing from the University of Edinburgh. He enjoys White Russians, karaoke and Twiglets.