IS THIS LOVE? In her years away from me she learned to make a red-coloured soup from stones, and yellow tea from dying hay. She offered me both when she finally let me find her, knowing I wouldn't drink such things. But I surprised her, drank the soup and tea down with a smile on my face, even asked for more of both. I was violently ill after, blood in my stool, teeth in my spit, but it was all worth it, seeing her face as she realised she had been wrong about me across the years neither of us would get back. ABLE Everyday is a mountain to climb, beginning at the bottom, failing to reach the top. Day ends, night gives breath to sleep, until day returns and the mountain remains to be climbed from the very bottom again, the top never to be reached, even if you forgo sleep in an attempt to create a day without an end. The mountain is always there and we must climb it because it is there, each day needing a beginning as it must, eventually, have an end, but sometimes, some days, I cannot face that mountain, cannot face that endless climb, cannot; futility locks my bones and blackens my mind, the breaths in my lungs hard to come, and so I lie here as I lie now, not able for a day of climbing, not able. HOW MANY? How many saviours have been sent since we crucified christ? How many have refused to reveal themselves, knowing the bloodlust that bends our bones and twists our souls when we are faced with the possibility of a salvation we know, deep beneath ourselves, we do not deserve? How many more will be sent before we are left to our self-made doom? MY OWN Though I could reach the switch I waited for you to flick it into being with your long thin fingers with their brightly painted nails, bringing needed light to my darkened days; there is my trouble, some of it, sometimes, waiting for some one else to make that first necessary move, when the most important step towards being well must be my own for it to last longer than the patience of whoever’s love I have managed to hang my hope upon. WE LIT A CANDLE We lit a candle for you, but somewhere between the striking of the match and the flame passing to the wick you were gone, and the candle was left to burn out alone. Edward Lee's poetry, short stories, non-fiction and photography have been published in magazines in Ireland, England and America, including The Stinging Fly, Skylight 47, Acumen, The Blue Nib and Poetry Wales. His play ‘Wall’ was part of Druid Theatre’s Druid Debuts 2020. His debut poetry collection "Playing Poohsticks On Ha'Penny Bridge" was published in 2010. He is currently working towards a second collection. He also makes musical noise under the names Ayahuasca Collective, Orson Carroll, Lego Figures Fighting, and Pale Blond Boy. His blog/website can be found at https://edwardmlee.wordpress.com.
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