Bypass, a Poetry Suite from Leo Alder
Bypass
MONDAY
break into the pool,
throw rocks at masonic lodge,
hide in the shadows
of steeples that cut deep
across the sky.
TUESDAY
climb the tarp above the playground,
see shadows trapped in amber streetlight
the trucks shining slowly over
low, dark hills
where the bypass, freshly built
hacks the town
from the world.
WEDNESDAY
you say you hate this place
and I hear you loud and clear, or—
I think I do.
the town is parched of traffic.
main street shuffles,
and sighs.
THURSDAY
it’s dying, you tell me,
it’s dead.
but your mum won’t let
you leave.
FRIDAY
you point to the horizon,
where the road promises
to meet the sea
saying: you’ll visit me, right?
SATURDAY
yard empty
your mum
won’t answer
the door.
SUNDAY
don’t want to
talk
about
it.
MONDAY/TUESDAY/WEDNESDAY/THURSDAY/FRIDAY/SATURDAY/SUNDAY
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see above.
MONDAY
someone has scratched your plaque
on the bench
overlooking
the river we’d play in—
that desperate little creek.
I trudge against the bank,
reopening dry mud
like blood
from a scraped wound.
TUESDAY
houses like nubs of bone,
sinking in carrion waste.
now, it’s—well.
there’s something churning
under the skin
of the town.
WEDNESDAY
the grass is still flat
where your Mum’s car had been
but slowly
(and I only notice because I loiter)
slowly, it stands up.
THURSDAY
the bypass belts fat through the paddocks,
a hot concrete smear,
a tourniquet that skirts the streets
diverts the drivers, the trucks, the anyone, really
elsewhere.
FRIDAY
you were always a shit driver.
I see the skid marks
and close my eyes.
SATURDAY
I trace your spinning path
across the road
to where the world ends
completely.
SUNDAY
the town,
I guess,
the town
is still here
quieter, without you
buds blooming through the cracks.
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