Men with Lattes
About war, they say, there is nothing new to
download. It is as common to be overwhelmed by
choice, as it is to rage against its perceived scarcity.
It is the romance of long summers passed away in
garden parties, and by equal turns, the polar bear
drifting to its doom on a wafer of ice, that may jab
us in the eye with blackthorn. A man who puts
down his horse without the aid of chemicals may
have been disciplined in this art during his tours of
duty, or be extremely disoriented by hunger and the
alien environment. Two men who put down their
horses without the aid of chemicals may have no
choice due to the barbarities of the battlefield, or be
inside an allegory wrought by an author ill-
disposed to the objections of effete aristocrats.
The Old Silences
It had reached lunchtime on the second, but only full, day and still I had no
idea when I was due to speak, what topic my paper was due to be
addressing, if I had even written it yet, and if so, how I might find a copy
of it. I figured that there must be somebody at one of the three conferences
here in the hotel whom I must know, if only in the most vaguely
acquainted kind of way, so I went looking for them. I began on the Ground
Floor. After checking the bars and eateries, the spa and leisure areas, the
shops and corridors, the conference suites, the meeting rooms, the private
rooms, and the currency exchange kiosk, I took a right into the kitchens
and sat down for a rest. Staff were far too busy to notice me. They
clattered chrome pots and pans, rushed about with steaming trays of broth,
shouted at each other, and waved sharp knives in each other’s faces. ‘Are
you here with one of the conferences?’ a voice behind me said. I looked
around to find an elderly gentleman in a grey suit quite out of breath and
mopping his forehead with a linen napkin. ‘I must be,’ I said. ‘I’m
supposed to be giving a paper on my stone,’ he said, lifting a kilo bag of
coffee beans. ‘That’s not a stone,’ I said. ‘It’s a long story,’ he said, ‘and
half the weight.’ ‘How heavy is it supposed to be?’ I asked, but was
suddenly struck with the boredom of it and didn’t want to hear the answer.
‘Do you really want to know?’ he said, a little surprised by my interest.
‘Yes, of course,’ I said. ‘The stone is the same size and weight as the
average human brain,’ he said. ‘So now you have only half a brain?’
‘Something like that,’ he said. ‘I misplaced the stone when I changed
trains at Crewe, and now I have this coffee.’ He wanted me to ask him
what his paper was about, but I wasn’t playing. ‘I’m with the Geologists
on Epoch-Naming,’ he began, but I cut him off. ‘It’s probably on its way
to Carlisle,’ I offered by way of comfort. ‘Sorry?’ he said. ‘Your stone.’
‘Ah,’ he said. We sat for a while.
Caution
What will we do now
the snow has returned
to ask for our submission
as we lie softening in our beds
Ask it for a spit of mercy
a minute to reconsider
as if it might not pierce us through
as if it understood
__________
Mark Russell’s publications include Spearmint & Rescue (Pindrop), Shopping for Punks (Hesterglock), and ا (the book of seals) (Red Ceilings). Other poems have appeared in Stand, Shearsman, The Interpreter’s House, Tears in the Fence, Blackbox Manifold, The Scores, and elsewhere
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