The Art of Death; Air Hockey Club by George Sandifer-Smith

The Art of Death 

At Elim Rd cemetery, Carmarthen

My bells sings from my gold  

and black-washed neck, slinking  

between the monuments, rolling on  

stones that dance  

beneath my cushioned ribs, hunter’s legs. 

I see them all, admiring white angels,  

grasping at other people’s memories  

gently by reading their names, dates  

of passage. The cut marble afternoon  

disappearing obelisk-like into the sun  

that saps the cemetery. The church is  

a concession, a stony surrounded island. 

My cat-eyes process light a little  

differently. Around the art of death,  

subsided crosses, cracked caskets. Walking,  

meeting, I see them all  

getting directions to the sky from crows. 

Air Hockey Club

Dad led me out of the rain, 

wax coats hanging in the blue  

wash of tables, spinning discs 

turning light around in gifts. 

‘We play mixed doubles,’ a kind 

woman with red glasses tells us, 

‘two of you would be perfect!’ 

‘I’m just dropping this one 

off,’ I reply, to Dad’s dropped 

smile. I’ve laced the lightning 

with no, release into downpour 

where I collapse. Words soak 

out raw, my knuckles cooling 

on the slabs, wishing, failing.