cutting clouds open

the cat jumps onto the bed as I’m taking off the sheets. he stomps into the duvet and curls up into his spiral. it’s the first I’ve seen him in my room since my arrival weeks ago. I scratch under his neck and he kisses my thumb. the sudden affection fools no one. he gets sulky when any of us leave, as though a packed suitcase threatens his reign of the house, or the doting of four others isn’t enough love to lap. I run my bedsheets through the wash with clothes I can leave at home, the right armour already bound tight by a zip. the prince stays put on the bare blankets until he wakes and wants to eat.

at the departure gate I wait between strangers and flights to and from the city I used to call home. uniforms rush in and out of doors I’ll never walk through. they call out unfamiliar names to board and I laugh at the idea of sneaking through onto the plane in their place. there’s a foreign mischief pulsing down into my fingers. I couldn’t tell you where it comes from, but tonight is a little different. I don’t dread the return as I would have had I left on time.

in seat 16c I rub my eyes and think about you. ready to make another mess without a single word. watch the lights dim and remember what you are. does any of it really matter? cutting clouds open in the dark at however many thousand feet. we’re in between at any height. I let the siren sing because she knows more (when I don’t). Virgin has teeth. eyes closed and it’s raining inside. the lady with the trolley gives me orange juice for free. 

who's afraid of primordial soup?

I cut myself shaving by mistake in the shower. diluted blood paints the water running down the plughole; weak reds that could be pinks. this used to happen every morning between the scales and brushing teeth. cuts assume familiar spots under the chin along my jaw. water stings the openings, passing down my neck into the sink. I dab them softly with a towel until they're less inclined to bleed and looking more like freckles. smile with teeth and count the red marks in the mirror. I think about the burning kids and want to smash the glass. curse myself for caring enough to even bother shaving. people only notice if they really want to see you.

blood dries on the towel and runs through pipes into the sea. everything returns: laughing and bleeding into the same queue for the flames. only ever somewhere between clay and the ashes. what are we still waiting for?

Goliath etc.

at the window waiting for the cat to come inside. I spy him by the driveway; frozen and staring at the convict-chipped stones of the garden wall. I wonder what he's thinking, if he ever thinks at all. there's a sadness to his stillness by the flowers and the bees. a sombre statue til the front door opens. bells and leaps up steps into the warmth. a silver dish of breakfast waiting on the kitchen floor.

the fruit bowl overflows. we think of making lemonade instead of progress. surrender what we shouldn't with excuses from the news. there are glimpses of clear between clouds. birds chirping through chatter and Uma Thurman's daughter. we talk about our therapists and compare back catalogues of dreams. sun reaches through gaps between branches to light your eyes. your laugh feels like a hug. maybe we’re learning each other again. half asleep on the precipice of peace before tomorrow's hammer.

I scrunch the paper for a fire and prolong finding my new home. we’re running out of matches. mum talks about the man of the shroud; carbon scans and photos on her phone. I think about Goliath and where we'd be if he had won. the actors on the TV cry through stories I won't follow. 'you really might want to think before you speak.' I fold my brother's laundry and keep hiding from my own.

paper pedestal

I imbue too much importance to the thoughts in spite of what I see and know about the world. fragile as forever, years of anger cast into a matchstick frame. the limb man stands to make the shadow of a statue he admires. we balance on a pedestal of headlines folded footsteps from the fire. carbon crackles into clouds. I listen to the psalms I wait too long for. sync my pulse up to the rhythm and shower in their anguish and confessions. all the while we ghost the mirror and read the numbers on the floor.

on the floor to make new shapes. I fold myself closed and open again; down on my back in obsessive compulsions, resculpting the flesh for a god I could never please. the ache wells, a familiar grip around my belly, scrunching smaller into a fist. caught between the unnamable; never being enough and a perennial unwillingness to relinquish the shred of potential I saw in a dream. I venerate the vision hanging on the walls of my sockets like a crucifix. repeat the rituals with toothpaste in my spit. 

Virgin in the sunroom

I cut the orange open: it bleeds a different colour though it all still tastes the same

six years of taking pills to fix my chemical imbalance

at best we water down the curse, dress the parasite in silks and sunny colours

when did I last fly a kite?

I want to be held

conceal my limbs in armour

or someone like you

I want to be well

to not need to make myself so small

or livestream holocausts to feel my pulse

I want a different body

from the boy movie or magazine

to be met at a different time in my life

saint Sebastian or someone on the sidewalk

we wrap our scars in bandages and each other’s arms

and talk about anything but tomorrow

I want to breathe alone

and live beyond my phone

when the nightmare ends

to start again

a new world order

with kids at school and not on fire

their paintings cover mirrors

less bombs and more thinking of you in the confectionary aisle

I want too much

and still pray for more

half asleep and knowing just how little I know

I want to play Virgin in the sunroom tonight. 

the museum of modern love

I close tabs for an email from a friend: a book review for a novel she bought on her trip to my hometown. we were in the store and she said she wanted to read something from the island. I recommended a book I hadn't read by an author I've only heard about through other people. something about an artist I don't know much about. on the phone she tells me the book has taken her to New York rather than the Tasmanian wilderness. she had wanted to read about the place I grew up - a confession she makes at the start of the review. I guess I let her down on that front, though I care less about my fault in reading where the novel took her. it seems she passed through far more important places than a closer understanding of the stolen land I learnt to walk on.

she writes and asks me to be still and listen. the I am challenged by the invitation. the review opens a generous glimpse of the tapestry she's weaving upstairs in the current moment. there's an openness to her voice that rarely carries on the words of someone so wise. blinds left undrawn, sincere without the wistful hope of naivety. she finds reflections of herself in revelations from the trials of the mystic followed in the book. a desire for intimacy with a heart closed by an epoch of dishes and headlines too pressing for hope. prophets see the stars: every good thing ends and all we have is one foot in the stream. she casts a fresh sheet of glass from these fragments of herself. tears and more tomorrow. I see myself through her new window and I think she sees me too. 

John

death of a family friend: third husband of my father's ex employer. a sudden stroke at eighty something. he would catch us fish from the shore and make me feel useful in the kitchen while he cooked us dinner. invested in my interests and whatever I brought to the table. I remember his lessons on red wine etiquette before hitting double digits in the village. my brother and I caught his stomach bug on a week at their place with the backyard pool on the coast. I was sick by the car and he patted my back at the airport drive-by drop-off. he liked to read and knew me better than my grandparents. I'll miss his hugs and funeral. the clock ticks over and we roll on as we were without quite knowing why.