Still Life

Still Life


Hayashi-san has no elastic in the waistband 
of his old pyjamas— bunched like a fist,
they're held up with a rubber band.

Orange peel dries by his feet as he listens
between the lines of enka songs
and studies the geography of his hands.

The painting looks crooked—
a bowl of fruit she painted
when the light was different.

He took it down once to look
for something she'd said. It's been crooked since.
He keeps moving it around the room,

chasing that same different light
that somehow strayed from a Siberian plain
right onto her brush. He has something epic

on the tip of his tongue
and every word is stone.

~

Published in Other Poetry, Series 4 No.3