blut

the farce and flare of coromandel chic;
a woozy misoprostol spell slowly leaks
through my bloodstream; my heart trickles down my cheeks
this wasn't supposed to happen after four weeks -
the doctor stutters behind his mask when he speaks;
my womb cramps, clots, cries and creaks
salt stinging down my cheeks
- psychosomatic, probably, doctor thinks,
embedded in these atoms, it never blinks
a foodless belly and veins full make me weak
return me to the rivers winding through forested peaks -
a motherless body needs space to breathe and shriek
this world, tumultuous, filled with grief
pre-masticated words stick sharp in my teeth ...

and still --
much safer, much more loved, cared for, respected, heard, held, supported,
than so many wombs here have been...
a small lick of blood flows a little more free
and for that, I am both grateful and guilty
oh! what heavy ancestry I am to carry
to heal these generations with a deep urgency:
but already there’s blood staining this life,
not all of us are getting out alive.

tendrils & mirrors \\ anarchy & lentils

I landed barefoot on this land --

touff, touff --

left then right,

a soft and gentle padding after years of ocean-spanning flight --

anchoring the arches of myself down, down into the soil...

I listened sightlessly through my soles

seeking to transplant Her DNA through the veins of me,

atom by atom,

taking back from Adam.

searching for a bottomless cavern, 

in which to send out the tendrils of me

sssshhhjjooumm

into the murky darkness

sssshhhjjooumm

searching a cushiony embrace to drown in the depths of

and stealthily like water

the tendrils made their way into every crevasse, every crack, every fracture...

seeking out every millimetre 

until nothing's left.

When I'm baptised, I run

and when I run, I keep running,

and I sprint

and I keep sprinting

until I'm back where I started

... because then I surely know, 

I've been everywhere. 

I've seen every corner, 

every signpost,

excavated every Every --

I'm the perfect Millenial

the rushing woman / searching soul

I want every Every

and what I want I want

now.

So where is that deep spaciousness?

That piercing sensitivity?

I lost her in the expanse of me --

some have restored it, others leeched it away

always restless,

morphing, 

metamorphosing relentlessly 

transforming through different shapes of me

endlessly, endlessly,

ebb and flow,

like the glow of the full moon.

Where is her deep spaciousness?

Her striking sensitivity?

I see it in the iridescent circle of the moon,

stained by little boys' charcoaled fingertips,

yet still halting time for those who stop and sit with her a while. 

I hear her in the stoic ancientness of the land beyond the water --

she knows my name and asks me to speak hers 

(when I do, others stand next to me).

I feel her in the shifting dusk, reminding us

that everything must die.

daughter of three

the body dissolves \
but consciousness remains

and while I am solid,
my head
sneaks into
every atom

here she is again
flooding red, again
inside out
on the last day
and
forever

my jaw aches from infatuation \
my back aches from deepening
the impossibly immersive curve
over and over

sunlight in winter

The world w[is] on fire
but it was cold
and we the guilty free
took to dismantling ourselves

he went light surfing
I danced heavy on the tarmac
the beginning of the end
and the end of the beginning

elmira avenue (in autumn)

     
       || -- something comforting, nostalgic
       in the micro-mountainous footpaths,
       disrupted and distorted
       by the ageing roots of searching trees ---


                                                 stronger than cement &
                             reclaiming the earth below the earth
                                              restoring urban to jungle,
                                                           & chaos to order


                                   I   t r a v e l
b  a  c  k       i    n            t  i m  e


   I have a pink-and-white bike;
streamers flap from the handles
                                                   on either side,
     
       beads clinking in the spokes of
       wheels clinking over footpaths:
       ||
       an obstacle course
       crafted just for me
       by my friends, the trees, the trees, the trees
                             and in the autumn, crunch-crunching
                                       reddish-yellowy leaves, leaves

        || 27 ||||||||
        alone
        barefoot through the breeze
        folding my entire self in slow heartbeats
                                                       of the trees,
                                                       of the trees.