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SAM MEEKINGS
Sam Meekings is a British poet and novelist. He is the author of Under Fishbone Clouds (called ‘a poetic evocation of the country and its people’ by the New York Times), The Book of Crows, and The Afterlives of Dr Gachet. He has spent the last ten years teaching writing in Asia and the Middle East, and currently works as an Assistant Professor of Creative Writing at Northwestern University in Qatar. His website is www.sammeekings.comA Green Light
Something inside you glows
green
as if a bulb had been nestled in your skull
all filament and spark:
lit
the stuff of the soul
and the soul is something that swims
sleek
in green light, in the hollows of your body
something alight in your skeleton
like fireflies
your other hidden life
the one you glimpse sometimes in reflection
double-take
something inside you glows
and in our dreams this other self
slips free
and stakes through empty towns
and comes to linger in libraries
ablaze
where the pages of every book are blank.
Something inside you glows
green
as if a bulb had been nestled in your skull
all filament and spark:
lit
the stuff of the soul
and the soul is something that swims
sleek
in green light, in the hollows of your body
something alight in your skeleton
like fireflies
your other hidden life
the one you glimpse sometimes in reflection
double-take
something inside you glows
and in our dreams this other self
slips free
and stakes through empty towns
and comes to linger in libraries
ablaze
where the pages of every book are blank.
For a long time now I have been burning
For a long time now I have been burning.
Flecks and ashes spray from my suit
as I walk to work. I hardly notice it now.
Maybe it started with my shoes
smouldering, a small flicker, embers nestled
between my toes. I brushed it off. Petty
slights, parties I wasn’t invited to, a passed
over promotion. Later
snaking up my ankles, flames leaping
from the pleats of my trousers.
A loved one disappearing. It seethes
and pops, leaves my skin like crackling.
The news each day a different spark.
Sometimes someone notices and
reaches for a glass of water,
a hydrant, an extinguisher, but I tell them
No, don’t worry. Not even a river or sea.
I am burning, always burning.
And besides, I hardly notice it now.
For a long time now I have been burning.
Flecks and ashes spray from my suit
as I walk to work. I hardly notice it now.
Maybe it started with my shoes
smouldering, a small flicker, embers nestled
between my toes. I brushed it off. Petty
slights, parties I wasn’t invited to, a passed
over promotion. Later
snaking up my ankles, flames leaping
from the pleats of my trousers.
A loved one disappearing. It seethes
and pops, leaves my skin like crackling.
The news each day a different spark.
Sometimes someone notices and
reaches for a glass of water,
a hydrant, an extinguisher, but I tell them
No, don’t worry. Not even a river or sea.
I am burning, always burning.
And besides, I hardly notice it now.