2 poems by Bel Wallace

Leaving Sahagún Before the Bull Running

Hunger pulls me to the last bar in this red-baked town.

Outside, leather-clad men, tattooed, muscle to fat.

Inside, some locals, mostly flies. 

At the back, an empty restaurant, white-clothed tables. 

Temple to beef; the hardy cattle of the Meseta

recycled here. Their flesh on display in a glass cabinet.

The flies buzz and salivate.

This is no place for a vegetarian.

The tall barman digs out a lonely slice of tortilla. 

I try not to think about the flies, take my coffee con leche,  

for the road. Everyone’s waiting for the bull running. 

I’ve walked here through streets already armoured. 

One boy will die, be laid in the red earth.

I’ll be long gone, on the Via Trajana, the Roman road.

Fugue State in Aquamarine

after Dianne Seuss

Light leaks around the curtains

brush-strokes of a painting I 

don’t belong in. I yearn to go 

back to the rose-red caves

of sleep but the bombing

is too much. I need to reach in

and touch those ancient carvings

let my fingertips read 

their patterns. These hands

still mine, still attached

but helpless, hopeless

press together in prayer

to some god, long lost

Flood me with aquamarine

cleanse me of all I’ve seen 

and even what I’ve been

and haven’t been

what I’ve written

what’s written me

let me crawl to the sea

swim, weightless, in blue-green

drown in its caress

the question lost

the answer still yes

__________

Bel is now a free radical*. She has been many more conventional things, most recently a carer. Now, cut loose, full-on hejira. Currently somewhere between Cairo and Tokyo. She’s left her novel in a drawer, not sure where. She loves foot-notes, but tries to restrain herself.

* unstable, highly reactive molecule with one or more unpaired electron (AI)