ENGLISH POEMS

THE GENTLE TOUCH OR A MANNER OF SEEING

She touches flowers, dainty cups,
knobs and dials,
as if they are sacred.
Handles fruit and vegetables
fearing she might hurt them.
Places cushions on sofas solemnly
like wreaths on cenotaphs.

And when she picks up a baby in her arms
we expect the child
to disappear into thin air.

JOE SALIBA


WITNESS

I know the drill to disaster,
the loaded rifle under the mattress,
the child unattended
near the rim of a pool, envy green.

I count the accessories
separating life from death,
hijacks and drugs digging deep.

These are no flower people.
I mark their faces parading
towards nightfall.
I hear the time-bomb ticking
with every step they take;
witness the bank hold-up,
the sound of the runaway car.

There's a knocking on my door.
A blue light twirls.

JOE SALIBA