Oliver Quincy Page

For Evan Blumgart

I’ve never said anything
that rivals your one pointed breath
the finest thought I’ve ever known.
You belong in the slipstream
of casual carless love and wanderings
in a city that beats out your name
on worn asphalt
heat rising off a loft roof in waves.
You are afraid, ‘…edibility of my soul.’
of dorm rooms and academic curses
but you will win at this –
you win brilliantly, in earnest –
gift new light to the firmament.
Emery Roth steel runs crack
but we know the dead will walk again
on film – at the movies
second run picture houses.
You will wander into the cinema
drag on the mood lighting
all cool – auburn
bruised ego, doughy and
dishevelled and the most
compelling facial hair this side of
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
You will find a language
of private signs and notations
of shared experiences.
My dearest friend is ageless.



I’m half stolen

I washed your body
methodically – workmanlike
It was a task and I accepted it with all the mood I had in me

I shaved your head
some other gesture
I performed with the care of the servants you prayed to

I kissed your eyelids
last in a line of the unhappy few
I want to mean more than all the others

I’d cut my hand, I’d burn my back

I’d daven with you
Real Siddur in hand – whiter knuckles
listening for the lyric and note that set you alight

אני רוחץ את ידי
רצפת הפורצלן הלבנה מוכתמת בעפר
אני רוצה צשובות מידי הנקיות

By Oliver Quincy Page

(Auckland, NZ) is a screenwriter, film maker and poet. He hopes to die valiantly saving the Vienna Boy's Choir from the wreckage of a burning tour bus somewhere in the mountains of Tripoli.