Creation
“Everybody knows it must be a trick
but centuries of sawing bodies in half
have revealed little in the way of details.”
So much misdirection I missed the switch
between Uncle Hector pulling coins
from unwashed ears to this, the man
who shares his face staring at the ceiling
from a silk-lined coffin.
I remember slicing into the breast
of a turkey (dead an hour or more)
and the packed fibres of flesh leaping
and pulsing like a hanky being pulled
by invisible threads.
At sixteen I dismantled the clock
that marked the date of my dad’s retirement,
reversed my steps and was pleased
t worked (more or less).
So many years of blowing away smoke
and rearranging mirrors still all I find
is myself, forehead wrinkled in thought,
unable to backtrace dismantled flies
or anything else considered alive.
Ben Johnson lives on the edge of the New Forest in England and works as an IT Admin in a small private school. He has been writing since his teens but in the last few years has taken it much more seriously. Ben attends local open mic poetry nights as often as he can. He also runs an online poetry forum called The Poetry Forum and last year started up a small press called Ravenshead Press.