Edward Lee


Not all the stories begun
when I was born
are still being told,

but some are,
some still are;

that is why I can still rise
in the morning, the endings
still unknowable, everything,
almost, still possible. 


In a dream
my skin melted,
exposing wet organs
and dry bones.

When I woke
the bed was an ocean
of failed flesh,
and you were gone,
a note on your dry pillow
a confession
of the deceit 
you had made me
a part of, and the name
I knew you by
was not your own.


She washed her hair
in the moisture present
in the air, and danced 
to the music
of stars colliding
in distances beyond sight.

I almost had the chance
to love her, but failed 
in some way
I did not entirely understand,
her heart speaking in languages
I could not grasp, though 
the words were decipherable,
the emotions recognizable.

Decades have passed
since I last saw her,
a distance of time
more felt than seen,
and I wonder where I fit
in her memory, if I fit
anywhere at all, this man
who wished to love her
but could not, for reasons
he still cannot understand. 

Edward Lee’s poetry, short stories, non-fiction and photography have been published in magazines in Ireland, England and America, including The Stinging Fly, Skylight 47, Acumen, Flights, The Blue Nib and Poetry Wales.  His play ‘Wall’ received a rehearsed reading as part of Druid Theatre’s Druid Debuts 2020. 

He also makes musical noise under the names Ayahuasca Collective, Orson Carroll, Lego Figures Fighting, and Pale Blond Boy.

His blog/website can be found at https://edwardmlee.wordpress.com

Flights, Issue Six, September 2022