Two Poems

‘Goulash, Prague’ by Lauren Gallagher. IG: @boykeats

Joshua Calladine-Jones

___________________________________________________________________

vltava polaroid #03

A room          a vacancy:     

the change in the tupperware, the ashtray,

the cubicle                (unlatched)

and her hobbling towards us.

.

What happened was we got punched:

a right-hook to the jaw, a handful

of flung cake this was nothing

to celebrate.

.

She cursed us, spat         onlookers

must’ve filmed it all: screen-lights

glaring           and (what choice?) we left.

We stopped               gawped at,

.

then perched on a bench       far

from the metro-mouth, where

we photographed this sight-same water

after the year                  had elapsed.

.

This river is a limit. In centuries

it hasn’t changed direction. Impossible

to imagine                 the certainty

of that ceaseless course.

.

Outside the cloister                        two sisters,

aloof to haggard strangers pass

an ATM                      glamourless

with its pixelated face.

.

And hate? No           now black points

emerge on the image, immune to needling

light. We thumb these bruises

as currents move                 within.

.

prague, spring

A man, thin-on-top and youngish in a bloodied

T-shirt and a woman behind

traverse the patch of fresh cement and spring

            is here again.

.

She has no pants, only stilettos and a most-

            revealing harness, as she teeters,     

keeping pace with the promenading male.

            The day’s clear

.

as light, or as wind. They seem to be in costume.

            She wears a surgeon’s mask,

but he doesn’t. All things contain their opposite.

            She is all

.

in black, a good head or so taller than her lover

            (lover? stranger? ally? friend?)

and they stamp and tremble on without a trace

            of shame,

.

(a lack of clothes isn’t pride or shame, it only is)

            naked, or almost naked,

in the light of March, unseen by anyone

            but us:

.

our half-a-quarter-form at three o’clock, leering

            from the office glass,

and a long steady wondering at the growing stain,

            at the blood.

___________________________________________________________________

Joshua Calladine-Jones is a poet and the literary-critic in-residence at Festival spisovatelů Praha. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in journals such as The Stinging Fly, 3:AM, The Anarchist Library, Minor Literature[s], The Hong Kong Review of Books, and Literární.cz. His pamphlet Constructions [Konstrukce] was published by tall-lighthouse in 2021, and Reconstructions [Rekonstrukce], will be published in 2022.

IG: @urneburiall

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