Politician

I slide down the grooves in your hand,
my course is yours.
My quicksilver progress leaves no mark.
Press me with a finger, I split
into bright little spheres.
You cannot catch me.
When you are tired of trying
I gather myselves.
I am whole again.
Scientists are starting to say
there is a slow poison from
having known me too well.

(Previously published in Poetry Australia, n.109, 1986.)

© Mary Blackwood