My Crematorium Hair
by Michael Brett

Inside whales are ghosts
And no matter how much you make yourself at home
They live
Pressed between the third and fourth layers of the wallpaper.

In my Jonah flat, I found them between the joists, the lino and the floorboards
In the half crowns, ration books and cigarette ends,
Newspapers, all wept dry in a Seamaster sweep running backwards:

'Refugees from Germany are not here to steal your jobs'
That unfold to Auschwitz ashes in my hands.

Look upwards,
You can glimpse the whale heart paddling around the stone vault ribcage.

Ghosts are toads or mosquitoes, sometimes both,
Devouring, being devoured. It goes on forever and
Dead you are useless to anyone, save politicians, lawyers,
Hitch hikers on rhetoric, poets.

Copyright © 2012 - Michael Brett
Published: 6/14/12   ·  Author's Page   ·  Next Poem