Tonight's Poet Corner: The Alternative

The Alternative

by Belinda Roddie

When the pressure runs deep,

and the fever pinches

both sides of my head

like raw dough in summer heat,

there's the urge to ignore the endearing

tone of a loved one, who urges

me to remember the sun

shaving its upper lip with the

cold, silver razor of the horizon.

It's easy for people, who stand

where the breeze hits them

at an angle that warms their bones

rather than freezes them, to tell

me that things will get better.

But I retort that taking it one day 

at a time doesn't help much
when every hour feels like an eon

on my brow, and every minute

laces its fingers around

my heart and squeezes

the arteries so that all reason

is backed up in my lungs and

spine like excess fluid, every second

takes another inch off my height,

another week off my life. You view

the shore ahead of me and what

appears to be a clear, blue sea,

but the foam is sticky, steeped,

heavy like molasses. I wade

my way across, but I'm left

clogged up and stained. My head

is half-tilted like a weather vane,

swiveling toward the mouth

that swallows the wind,

and I wish I were heading back

toward, of course, Ireland. I wish
I had a boat, and that I was sailing it
through the dents and divots
of caramelized sugar

to the cliffs and peninsula,

rimmed with green and sustained

music, free from queens

and hierarchical drama. Blessed

with the streams of poets' labors,

words like water turned to vapors

surrounding pubs and nature,

blended into a cup of steam. I can

find a city where the people say

what they mean and mean

what they say. Where storytellers

dip their biscuits in black tea and hold
the discs up so that the brew turns

to silver in a light you can't bottle

or sieve. I can settle my soul

where the emotionless air is

actually clean. I can make up my

own percussion as each unstable, mossy

boulder careens. I can pretend

I actually know something when

the culture I'm submerged in holds

my swollen ego in low esteem.

Atlantic currents teeming. Claddagh

rings gleaming. Stereotypes demeaning.

Penny whistlers screaming.

Penny whistlers screaming.

Penny whistlers screaming.

Penny whistlers dreaming

about Kerry and Moher

and a new lover far beyond their

nostalgic borders. They break bread

and hope the same for the chains

that hold them to these blasted burrens.

They're more than willing to leave

the artificial madness behind for me. Their
escape is far different than mine; perhaps

we should switch places. If only

to regain calm in my ocean. If only

to regain feeling in my face.