Hi Christina.
This is gob-smackingly good. The form works so well with the content.
I have found myself wondering, though, about it's first statement: "It was 
by chance that we took him home." I can both accept it - and yet I feel, 
"Nah, no one takes anyone home by chance!" I find myself thinking you 
probably mean something slightly different to what I read.
Bob


>From: Christina Fletcher <[log in to unmask]>
>Reply-To: The Pennine Poetry Works <[log in to unmask]>
>To: [log in to unmask]
>Subject: Sub: Partings (Second attempt)
>Date: Fri, 16 Jun 2006 03:22:57 EDT
>
>
>
>Partings
>
>
>It was by chance that we took him home.  I'd no idea you could see  the 
>space
>where his long-demolished home once stood, or that we'd pass The  Corner 
>Pin
>and The Mission.  In the gloom of the limousine my English  cousin smiled: 
>“
>This is the icing on the cake: how many come full-circle these  days?”.
>
>It’s the way, isn’t it?  You meet people you’ve hardly known and each 
>  has
>an unheard story: Sunday golf played with Mumm champagne corks on Caribbean
>sands, dear Roely sewing pointed hats for their daughter’s school play, 
>the
>words he played with to calm a revolution.
>
>         Words fall  apart
>as unthreaded  letters
>but I will not
>
>Six weeks and six days later we collected him again.  The trees are
>fruiting: we picked an unripe apricot and put it in his bag.  There was a  
>white
>carriage on the lawn where a man groomed his horses: a pale grey gelding  
>and a
>silver mare.  We stroked their flanks and chatted.  He said he  didn’t 
>mind his
>job: it didn’t do to be emotional but once he’d cried when he  saw a 
>child: a
>hit and run case.
>
>We thought we’d walk a while and pop into the Corner Pin for three  
>ciders.
>We sat him in a garden chair.  I unscrewed the lid to let in  the sky and 
>the
>smallest drop of his cider.  You could see concrete where  Uncle Arthur 
>grew
>roses.  I suppose the rats have gone elsewhere.  It  must be good to pull 
>down
>slums, to move on from poverty.
>
>A Rasta at the bus stop told me his father died in Barbados two years back,
>that he hadn’t known and couldn’t find the grave. The white carriage 
>passed
>by  as we waited.  It was the smallest coffin and there were many  flowers.
>Eight large letters spelled ‘Princess’.
>
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>christina fletcher
>
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