Natalie Nee

Parched tubers and flowers arise from cracked dirt
Stretching from the still-warm sheets of winter
Until April’s cruel wasteland unfurls its wings 
and summer pounces upon us 
But the sun is relentless
and the trees offer no shade 
In the city, a river of men eddy under London’s Bridge,
pretending they and their souls are not hanging by a single, rusty hinge

In a high tower above, a game of chess commences
A measly pawn and a noble knight battle for glory
A would-be witness cannot stand the sight of Philomel 
above the hearth, her cries heard not, her fate worse still
Cupid’s gilded reflection doubles the candelabra’s flame
fed by a scant breeze while smoke’s fingers caress a chair—
throne-like—robed in satins, perfumed with synthetic scent
The wind blows harder still, billowing under the door, 
whispering questions of memory, of knowledge, 
if we are alive or if we are already dead
What should we do tomorrow, you ask 
Much more of the same

A tent of leaves that once canopied the sweet waters below
hold on for dear life, slowly sinking into its damp banks 
Nary a nymph nor trash can be seen
Relics of strangers, of the so-called elites
The cold wind is coming, his breaths rattling this barren cage
His mirthless, maniacal laugh is a challenge, a gage
But I have a few last requests, Sweet Thames,
if you’d keep me company, dry my tears
For my brothers, my family,
lie too still in the damp earth
Under the moon’s cursed rays, 
I too have traipsed among the dead
I, Tiresias, a typist, and a clerk, watch and hate and lust
Oh Thames, see the flames? Smell the smoke?
Out of your pores drip tar and oil
Oars beat your waters, splash on both shores
The fire is raging, O Lord burn away my impurity

Oh Phlebas, where hast thou gone?
A fortnight has passed, 
as has the memory of the sea, the gulls
The current circles like vultures to pick at your remains
A whirlpool of time, watching his own life drown away

The water recedes, the tide drawing back now
Only rock and sand and dead mountain mouth
Too parched to speak, to lie, to spit
The sterile earth sweats, a mother in mourning
This modern world is but a stage
its curtains now closing
Her pillars crack and crumble
A flash of lightning, finally a rain
And dry bones whisper 
peace, peace, peace
in every weathered grave

Natalie Nee is a novelist and latte enthusiast. Her work has appeared in Across the Margin (Best of Across The Margin, 2023), Rejection Letters, Maudlin House, Cowboy Jamboree Press, Tiny Wren Lit, The Hooghly Review, and more. She’s cooler on Twitter (@novelnatalie).