His tambourine is disturbed.
We hear this
because the man is trying to dislocate shadows fingering his spine.
The couple next to the man
appear comfortable, smiling at their tambourine.
Their tambourine is happy to be controlled by their clenched fists.
They are too aroused
to notice they are supporting the wall with their backs,
to notice the whiteness of their knuckles.
I see that your back is feeling the strain too
but you maintain your elegance and poise beautifully.
The violin is introverted.
The singing is wretched.
The colour of rot:
deep-red-almost-black
like roses
coveted by grandfathers.
The tambourine is disturbed.
I’m weary suddenly.
I don’t know about you.
It’s difficult to leave though
because the ceiling is resting on our shoulders.
Rachael Lowe
Poem originally written in Bodrum, Turkey and Majdal Shams, Israel in June & July 2005
Poem completed in Phnom Penh, Cambodia in May 2008
