John Bernard Bourne
Pieces of You
it was a hint of immortality
hidden in my room
pieces of you that
I kept for myself
uniforms of a time
viewed through subtle eyes
or the hole in the wall
from the arrow you gave me:
—remember your name, my name, the look of the grandfather you never met; the accident in Muskoka—
—do not trust a brother who abandons you; selling news on the street
and aprons at the door—
there are pieces of you
that I have hidden
in the house
that is no longer ours.
Pieces of Me
I am drunk in a bar
in some Asian country
having severed memories several nations back
I keep waking up in the
barren nights
not knowing where or who I am
grasping in the endless whisper
of my identity
like the unrooted Canadian
that I am
blinking
The neon lights of this relentless carnival
give me guidance, as truant and sordid as
it may be
there was a blemish
on the wall, beside the sleeping mat
in the room of a Korean brothel
I was patronizing
I felt it in the darkness
and it was identical to the one
in my room
back home.
Recollection (Sutton, 1987)
he showed me his tattoo
a Chinese symbol
signifying death, loss
and love
For his brother
and parents, or some family tie
a needless, senseless thing
that had left him alone
but he smiled
and told me
he was getting over it
the beer helped a little
but my music was helping
the most on this night
'would you play that one again...'
John Bernard Bourne is a Canadian writer who has had numerous fiction and non-fiction material published all over the world in magazines such as Macleans, Log In Seoul, Bywords, Canadian Content, etc. He can be contacted at johnbernardbourne@yahoo.ca.
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