SEVEN SISTERS

_______________________

Every so often someone mentions
the name of a town and just outside
the map of myself the past begins
to pack its boney belongings
and believe in home again.

It’s been Shiloh, Cork, Blue Anchor—
this time it’s Seven Sisters, part
of a biography with no familiar face,
no landscape to place myself,
no landmark pinpointing the exact spot
where…That’s what a good home will do,
attach you to some second story
window, curtain parted, you looking out
at you checking the mail.

It’s the letters I’d receive
that would activate the small
hearth in the master bedroom
of my mind, my name followed
by Seven Sisters, the street
vacant. There’s nothing like loving
somewhere you’ve never been,
the someone you never met
eclipsed by the dark alleys
and hidden calm. There’s something
to letting the soft mattress of the moment
go all the way through that lovely,
empty town, all the people you’ve ever been
waving, inviting you for tea, forever moving
toward the inception of its name.

 

“I’VE NEVER HAD A REASON TO LIE”

–a co-worker

__________________________________

As I listened to him
lie for the first time,
I wondered how the word
reason forced its way into
the comment. I also found myself
pulling up a few secret files of my own,
some of my better myths. I discovered
cowardice comes to the top most often
and with nothing at stake in this
heart to heart with myself
the sudden bravery of my
weaker side prevailed.

It was extraordinary how many times
this inner child confessed, everything
from booze as a boy to sick days
on crucial dates. It was also amazing
to see it separating from fear,
from that history of selfishness.

When he finished,
his eyes seemed to surrender
to his reasons. I wanted to tell him
opportunity might have been
a better word, tell him a good stab
at the truth can be an exceptional
lie—you can have the best of both
these necessary gods and a perfect
replica of their prayers.

 

HOLIDAY

____________________

The department store is decorated
with colorful balls, fake fangs, evergreens
with tiny white lights. Costumes.
It’s a massive display of Halloween
and Christmas crossing like parades
at the center of an imaginary town.
The inner children are jumping
on their beds, peeking through
the railings of their endless,
staircase lives. Somewhere
in between, the ghosts of a few
turkeys gobble out something
serious, testing the separate
knots in all our throats, handing
out flyers for our next public prayer.
And not far away, in its special dark,
still boxed, stacks of noise blowers
and pointed hats snowing with glitter
wait to celebrate what, in all likelihood,
will never happen, never know the electric
air of guessing who we are or how
we knew what we always wanted.

_________
George Bishop was raised on the Jersey Shore before moving to Florida where he lives and writes. Recent work has appeared in Philadelphia Stories, Evening Red Press and Prick of the Spindle. Forthcoming work will be featured in Grey Sparrow Journal. His chapbook, Love Scenes, is available from Finishing Line Press & new chapbook, Marriage Vows and Other Lies, has been released by Flutter press.