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Talking wrists I use the blade my father scraped his face with, trace the marks and features that our generations graced or cursed us with, and coursing blood my mother built my veins with feeds me still, through sudden whim or power and ever sharper when I cower, whimpering, cursing corners quietly at these lazy energies of mine. Features, pasts and failures fade into the future in directions I should control by crying out: "no, I bleed my generations when I feel my family" But when I see this history fuel a callous soul, my modern dramas slip into irrelevance. Because I left I know long ago where I come from and this, whenever it is, whoever it is I am today Is how it ever is for now And I will use my father's blade regardless Until it twists and drops its final keen farewell.

ŠGerry Black 1998


After watching my father shave my grandfather on a chair at the end of a lane in Glenarm on the Antrim coast as a child and hearing the rasp...