My first harvest was bittersweet: the smell of wheat cut at the knees. Golden dust swirling in gusts, collecting in the sun-baked tractor tracks; waiting for an augur of untold fortunes to tell me which way is life. And so I watch again the propensity of my heart to fall, to fail, to start … Continue reading The second harvest
I pray in the small hours, in the quiet, instead of saying I love you. Words I will never say but still I thank those who bow their heads on my behalf; those who hold me tentatively between heaven and hell. I pray as if lying. As if keeping decade-long buried secrets. I say … Continue reading My Earth-bound years & God
The wind calls me its friend and I believe it. The trees look at me with their knotted eyes and I nod beneath their grand omniscience. I realise I cannot vanish. Gaia’s grip is nondescript, effervescent and ever-present. She will not let me go. She will not allow me to descend into titanic depths and … Continue reading She will not let me go
Butterfly season. The small lilac fluttering about the buddleia, the cabbage white weaving between laurel leaves, and the mahogany with spotted black irises for wings circling above the patio; circling above my cat’s olive eyes. His body curved in silent wait, claws curled for capture. Whilst their gossamer wings wilt in collapsible softness; death dust … Continue reading Ars Poetica (after Dana Levin)
Old photographs are kept in kodak envelopes in boxes beneath the bed; paper with tinged edges - that one time in the garden, my brother’s brown eyes, a Bratz birthday cake and a water fight, & my divorced parents’ wedding. I keep them to not keep them. I do not wish to display them in … Continue reading The things I do not keep
The clock in my room wanes like a moon; with each inward collapse of tick to tock, light grazes the walls - glass beneath water - I count quietly, each inward collapse, my tick to tock, dreams of petrichor healing; evaporating raindrops on my lips. I yearn for yesterdays in the shape of tomorrows, for … Continue reading Dali’s clocks
Our eyes do not shine with judgement like theirs, our small, pinpricks of coloured light, peaches, purples, reds and pinks, but we watch you as we drink, sip from the vase usually kept beneath the sink. We seek the sun but find ourselves resting upon your weary face, distant in the netherworlds of a mind … Continue reading Tulips to Sylvia
you will wish you could unlearn the words people have used to describe you. you will unlearn words you have used to describe others. you will let go of the anger you spelled the same as your middle name. you will embrace the anger fuelling fires of change. you will stop setting fires … Continue reading A list poem for my past self
Ghost ship is my body, left to wander and sink upon waves, the belly of squalls. I traverse the ocean floor and disintegrate in the north-easterly winds. I let the sun shine through me. Ghost ship is my body without hands which feel, without a helm at which to stand and point yonder. I … Continue reading Ghost ship
Remember the thoroughbred girls? The girls we watched in washroom mirrors and fell in love with. With kohl eyes, powder puffs, chapstick lips & candy-floss pink cheeks. The girls who shot the pistol at the starting line and still finished first. Who took drugs and hearts like jumps, curled their knees beneath them. The girls … Continue reading Thoroughbreds
