Last call came just after my first taste
So I walked to the water's edge
Then turned my back to the horizon
because the fire sky wasn't the sun rise,
it was our ship going down in flames.
Standing on the shore was never easy for me,
even as the oil burns through the salty sea.
(I never resist the boiling water)
maybe just to feel the pain
of hope?Son rise, burn in vain.
Well, it was always time to go, last call or no.
I had to have one last sip to wet my lips,
believing in the sun rise, even through fiery deception
(but then, I've never been good at telling love from intention, lonliness, and invention).
Your last breath escaped to the wrong person,
and clearly, I'd overstayed my welcome.
It was always too late,and past the time to go.
You would never have me wait
suffocating in this silent state.
If you ever spoke a single truth, I know it's so.
It occurs to me that there's a reason
that last calls come 15 minutes early.
It takes a moment to realize-it's already too late, better I should go.
That I ever spoke a single truth, I overstayed, I know.
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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