{"id":3495,"date":"2013-12-14T10:47:22","date_gmt":"2013-12-14T10:47:22","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?p=3495"},"modified":"2014-06-16T19:40:19","modified_gmt":"2014-06-16T19:40:19","slug":"two-poems-10","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?p=3495","title":{"rendered":"Two Poems"},"content":{"rendered":"

22.<\/i> The path<\/i><\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

The sea is melting into floes.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

The melt-water softens our dogs\u2019 paws and ice splinters their toes.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

We tie seal-skin boots they try to flick off.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

We sled the ice-foot, the belt of shore-fast, until the air is as crass as the water<\/p>\n

below.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

The grown is patched brown like our faces.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

We stand with knees tucked, bent backed until the wind blows thin willows slack<\/p>\n

against the sky.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Who is happier than us to be alive?<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

It\u2019s easy to see the copse as a corpse \u2013 but trees are trees.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Give us breath or give us death, Victor!<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

We struggle through the willows till they become the pines we\u2019ve had in our\u00a0mind<\/p>\n

for some time.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Snow mixes with dirt \u2013 bare-black.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

The mountains behind us slip away flat-packed.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

We walk a path of flowers pale and pink until we hear Victor, in the trees, ready<\/p>\n

to fall like snow.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Under our feet the flowers crack, blue as glass.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Under our feet, the dogs circle, the shadows of the birds circle.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

A change in the wind is a change in our luck.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Uncovered: a rusty chainsaw, <\/i>an orange\u2026<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n


\n23. <\/i>\u00a0The path, continued<\/i><\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u2026 truck.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

The path in front of us is part muck, part shuck of engines.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

A two-stroke engine with a problem confronts us.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

We can\u2019t fix a two-stroke anymore than we can fix a four-stroke.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

A wet spark plug, someone says, can mean many things.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

A wet dream,<\/i> we say, <\/i>can mean many things. <\/i><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

The sparks look lost, weak, slack-jawed.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

The path doesn\u2019t crash \u2013 but it has a weak chin, a smash-through-the-windshield<\/p>\n

sort of grin.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

We\u2019d smile if it didn\u2019t hurt.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

From over our shoulders one of our huskies lolls a tongue black as oil:\u00a0 Check the <\/i><\/p>\n

ground wire for the ignition coil<\/i>.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

The gas line sprays and we\u2019re on our knees praying for a spark.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

A path is its own catheter, Victor.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Rewire the hope in our hearts with the veins in our legs.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Any minute now we expect you to step out of the fog like one of our dogs with a<\/p>\n

wrench, whacking pistons:<\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 tick <\/i><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 tick <\/i><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 ping. <\/i><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

We\u2019re high on the smell of smoke that fills the sky.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Not from behind, but ahead.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Burning dwarf willow and heather, from a camp above the weather.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

22. The path   The sea is melting into floes.   The melt-water softens our dogs\u2019 paws and ice splinters their toes.   We tie seal-skin boots they try to flick off.   We sled the ice-foot, the belt of shore-fast, until the air is as crass as the water below.   The grown is […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":82,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false,"jetpack_publicize_message":"","jetpack_is_tweetstorm":false,"jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":true,"jetpack_social_options":[]},"categories":[298,299],"tags":[],"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"yoast_head":"\nTwo Poems - The Manchester Review<\/title>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?p=3495\" \/>\n<link rel=\"next\" href=\"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?p=3495&page=2\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_US\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"Two Poems - The Manchester Review\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\"22. 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