Introducing a new series of poems by Julian Matthews. Julian is a writer and Pushcart-nominated poet published in The American Journal of Poetry, Autumn Sky Poetry Daily, Borderless Journal, Beltway Poetry Quarterly, Dream Catcher Magazine, Live Encounters Magazine, Lothlorien Poetry Journal and The New Verse News, among others. He is a mixed-race minority from Malaysia and lived in Ipoh for seven years. Currently based in Petaling Jaya, he is a media trainer and consultant for senior management of multinationals on Effective Media Relations, Social Media and Crisis Communications. He was formerly a journalist with The Star and Nikkei Business Publications Inc
Link: https://linktr.ee/julianmatthews
At mass, during the Our Father, as usual, you reach out to hold my hand. I try to pull away early before the “…and lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil”. You hang on, gripping tighter until “For the kingdom, and the power, and the glory are yours, now and forever. Amen.”
I always forget that bit, until you release me.
My wandering mind is a messy, ransacked room these days. My memory is a chest of pulled drawers.
I rummage through them looking for secrets. Hoping ancestors left some tucked in my DNA. At night, I read poetry by mostly dead white men. It’s like shovelling dirt, excavating caskets. Trying to find meaning in their bones. Piecing them together like old jigsaws.
Once, I was in hospital with my dying father. He was asleep and I held his frail hand in mine. It was tied to the rail of the bed to avoid him pulling the IV out. I slipped my phone out and took a photo. Possibly for a memory, or for a blogpost later.
How unconscionable, self-centred, macabre even. He wasn’t one for hugging nor the touchy-feely kind. I was taking advantage, either way. I don’t regret it – he died 10 days later. And I blogged about his death, his memory, the photo of our hands clasping. I am sure he wouldn’t have minded – right, dad? Dead men, they say, tell no tales.
But here’s a secret even a living poet can share: That night, as I tired, and tried to pull my hand away, Dad gripped it harder, not wanting to let go.
Next mass, I will do the same with you. And remember not to let go.
Until our final Amen.
First published in Skylight 47 Magazine, Ireland.
