Chris Andrews

Three Poems

The Jennifer

Arthur last seen at a posh college
dealing ironically: first to go.
The Peter who wore out his supports
and said, while I tried not to fidget,
“They’ll share their words of wisdom, even
give you money, but time? Not so much.”
Louise who discovered a talent
for big and dirty simulations.
Paula with her capital of cool.

Anil who was simply the quickest.
The Jennifer with contact lenses
who two or three times was naturally
curious to see if alcohol
would go on opening up the world
and has never remembered slurring,
“WE are going to be girlz forEVVA,”
stretched out on the back seat of the bus.
Some years down the track her speech is crisp:

“Jesus, I can’t even shit in peace.”
And: “They’re all so frank and generous
with advice, but not with help, as such.”
Then she chuckles and is on her feet
before I hear the crying begin.
The ghost of a netted mango tree
presiding over her concrete yard.
A festive mist of katydid clinks.
The Ken who played the harp. Bright Arthur.




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