The frigid wind bites a wrinkled hand Feeding hungry pigeons in the park.
Screaming around empty skyscrapers Stabbing, hurting the cancerous breast. She loudly clears her throat of hard phlegm Calls the birds by all their pigeon names. Settling on her shoulders, on her cap Under her arms, what is wrong with that? Birds are cooing and huddling close Stops the furious wind's fearful sting.
Just before the woman breathes her last On her face a smile from here to there. Pigeons jubilant, they see it too Something which is a cause for much joy. On the sidewalk in front the bench A tiny, green bud pushes through a crack.
I can visualize the scene. She dies with a smile, content with her lot in life and her pigeons. But she dies alone. Maybe she left part of herself and her goodness behind as represented by the green bud.
Robin Ouzman Hislop's poetry is certainly in dialogue with some of the key architects of the 'poetics of indeterminacy' – both the Modernist strands represented by the likes of Beckett and Stein, and the postmodernist strands represented, initially,
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Love ya!
Jane
But what the hell, you just hit a grand slam home run!