John Grey

So this is what exile looks like…
lumps of white cheese,
a trail of ants spelling out the letter “L,”
newspapers with beards scribbled
on the Pope’s chin
and a pretty model’s teeth blacked in.
So Elba is a kitchen after all.
It’s a laminated counter top
the three wise monkeys could see
their face in.
It’s the refrigerator explaining
elective affinities to me
and a bag of sliced ham that says,
“If you’ve got eternity to spare
I can tell you about the pig I was.”
The child I never had
is living on the moon.
It’s just a lump of cheese,
white as night’s blood.
And there’s the shadows of course,
ants huddling together.
I take out my pen
to give it bushy eyebrows.

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