Fever Touch
In ‘About Light’ by Jude Neale, heartache might be inevitable, but heartbreak is, mercifully, optional.
Enjoy the poem, shortlisted for the 2016 Magpie Award for Poetry, and excerpted here from Issue 13, Winter 2017, on sale now until June 31st.
About Light
by Jude Neale
I could have died on this road alone
but for the fever of your touch.
You pull crusts off my naked loneliness
and lessen this wake I drag
behind me like a stillborn.
You name my doddering illness
that hides in a bucket of shame.
I’m sorry I forget how to think
about light, trapped
curious curled words
clasped in my trembling hands.
I hope you will love me
despite endings
when I don’t die with longing,
I don’t even die for your lips
to press like wet poppies
onto my white waxen face.
In the end we carry nothing but stones
and skinned knees down to the river.
Bruised and broken we aren’t afraid.
We teeter onto one another’s empty stage
arms suspended like angels before the fall.
For more from Issue 13, Winter 2017, pick up your copy today, ON SALE now until July 31st!
Jude Neale is a master educator, Canadian poet, vocalist, spoken word performer, workshop facilitator, and mentor. As well, she has has written twelve collections of poetry. She is a beloved mother, grandmother, and wife. And she’s also the judge of our Kingfisher Poetry Prize!
At eight years old, Jude had her first publication, when she won a CBC youth competition on travel. Fast forward a few years, and now she has released her latest book, Water Forgets Its Own Name (Ekstasis Editions), a collaboration with the visual artist Nicholas Jennings.
We are delighted to have published another of Jude’s poems: ‘Blaze of the Universe’ in Issue 37. Visit her at judeneale.ca.
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