The Lake, The Ocean

by Mark Farrell

His parents don’t let him play near the lake
because
a neighbourhood girl
drowned down there.

But all the other kids get to go.
And all the other kids learn
to swim.

He curses his parents, yet
knows
his revenge.

When he dies, he will simply, drown. Exhausted, he will give up, slow
sink

That’s a promise, Mom.
And that’s a promise,
Dad.

Tidying Up

by Mark Farrell

A British poet
reads one of my poems in a literary journal
– and he reads the
Contributors’ Notes too – finds out
that I live in Prague.

He gets my e-mail address from
the journal’s editor (a close friend of his) and
writes me, this is in December, asking if he can visit me in January.

Curious, careful,

I Google him.

Come across some of his poems first, a bio, hey, a picture even.

Okay, I figure: The guy seems all right.

I write him back, welcoming him to come to Prague anytime he wants…

Don’t hear anything more from him though.

And then, that July, I receive a contributor’s copy of a journal – a different one but
inside there is a short notice of a poet’s death (leukemia) – back in early spring.

Takes me a few moments: scanning through
his list of publications – before it
dawns:
Oh! The guy who wanted to come visit!

Oh no!

Did I get rid of all his e-mails already?

I hope very much that I did.

For: call me sentimental, call me superstitious
but:
I really don’t want to
have to
tick the box
beside his name
and
hit
Paf. Pif.