Octopus
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About this ebook
Patrick Warner
PATRICK WARNER was born and raised in Claremorris, Co. Mayo, Ireland. He moved to Newfoundland in 1980 in search of better weather and economic prosperity. Bitterly disappointed on both counts, he turned to writing, penning three critically acclaimed poetry collections and a novel, double talk. One Hit Wonders is his second fiction offering. Patrick currently lives in downtown St. John’s with his wife, Rochelle, and two daughters, Annie and Greta.
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Octopus - Patrick Warner
OCTOPUS
Just through the door, I gander due west
until arrested by an on-the-go girl, in hairband,
sucking a dumbtit, her freckles all sparkles,
holding before my face her slender hand,
its fingers showing signs of hyperextension
(the slightest pressure would bend
them straight back to her wrist). Her tiny palm
is divided in four by a cross,
each quadrant bearing a postage stamp,
each embossed with a propelling octopus.
To make you swim where few have swum,
she says, a life in ten hours, more or less.
I dab one on the snail-mail of my tongue.
I turn to pay her, but find she has gone,
a wisp inhaled into the club’s cavernous lung.
Nothing then, no tingle, nothing until a line
appears—a zigzag of joins through the parquet
floor. I follow, funamble, one step at a time,
between dancers, until my muscles ache,
until suddenly comes a flare of lantern light,
the click of a key in a lock, then the creak
of a barn door letting animals in for the night.
I enter, and there in the doorless first stall
is a plough horse, a grey-dappled white.
His conker eyes have a calming effect.
He holds before my face two lacquered hooves
that he snaps together like halves of a book,
like a prize-fighter tapping black Everlast gloves.
All this is a ceremony, preamble
to his presentation—a gesture of love—
of a pearl-white harness. I fall
for it immediately, for its Doris Day fifties’ hair,
for it being the corbelled arch a fully
loaded camel would struggle to pass under.
An hour, ten hours or a year has elapsed.
I find myself standing before a mirror:
that octopus vulgaris
has injected its lamp-black into my eyeball,
dilating my pupil out into the iris,
like an idea that’s inflamed the public will,
breeding a strongman, a movement, an empire,
leaving all but a few wondering what the hell
has transpired. SOS’s wired in from everywhere,
again I am with the