I know what it is to be a weapon, dangerous
in theory, accepted and forgiven in practice.
Your mouth, wet electric, a soft target
for aching bones, a feast for hungry hands,
it's almost as if we never spoke.
as if your face was only meant for silence.
I never called myself the hunter, only ghost
left ruined by the body's rush.
It's a war I don't want to wage and yet
here we are- you the bystander, the city burning,
the soldier and the monk looking on,
I know what it is to be both,
the passenger to some ancient devil's gunshot,
the pulsing bacterial beat of a dying king,
if only for a moment. To be the neighbourhood after
the riot. Both sides of the tape. The body on the street
and the ghost, weeping into the night.
Michael Cormack was born and raised in Liverpool, England, where he has recently returned with his American wife after living and travelling in Central Europe.