Poems

2049

You don’t remember bees. I draw one for you, 
filigree the wings in silver. Snow is something

the freezer does when you don’t close the door
properly. Blue skies are daily and the moon’s

lost its face. Sea levels have risen, no more 
treks to the tide collecting shells. You giggle

at photos of me in tights and long sleeves. 
Gloves are displayed in museums like aliens.

Ice cream shares have shot through the roof,
you ask me how many flavours I can name.

Another skin treatment’s launched to make                                                                                                   it harder to burn (I’ll never confess my sunbed

hours). Swimming is law, treading water the new 
gym. You joke your kids will have webbed feet.

—

How to handle diagnosis

Think the worst when the doctor calls you. Practise
your drama queen skills. Relax when she says it could
be one of several things. See the specialist and know
the worst. Keep listening after you hear it. Control
your tears when being examined / biopsied / patched
up. Drive home in silence with your husband; note
how he grips the steering wheel, how far you can turn
your head. Make a cup of tea and cook the pork chops
you’ve defrosted. Cry again when you’re then told
it’s spread. Find your husband who’s outside grouting
the wall; hold each other. Become calm; plant daisies,
keep your hair appointment, suggest cocktails
at the beach. Decide how to tell family; curse the miles
between you. And when a friend texts you’re strong,
you’ve got this, break down in the walk-in robe.

from Venus, Ginninderra Press 2022

—

Because

you’ve gone Dad, I’m arranging a new one,
mending myself to you piece by fabricated piece.

I begin with your feet, position your once white
trainers so you’re surveying the back garden,

what to trim and weed. Next, the grass-stained,
paint-splattered jeans you wore at weekends

to do odd jobs around the house, which always
took you longer than planned. To finish, a red

sweater that hints of you, even now. All you
need is a little life. Closing the wardrobe,

I swear I see your foot twitch, picture you smiling
at me like the last time I saw you, which I knew

would be the last. I tie your laces, just in case.

from more than here, Ginninderra Press 2019

—

Cycle

And there's a certain drawing down and I'm a child again,
fascinated as my nan hooks the chimney's tongue

to pull breath from outside, tall the fire taller.
The creature in me burrows deeper, gnaws as if trying

to treasure my bones. I fever every layer of skin,
on turning leave a glistening trail like something in peril.

There is nowhere I can be, tremble in the in-between
when stars are being blinded by a melodramatic morning.

Seismic shifts curl me undone, river my youth,
the promise of it falling wordlessly, reaching to be held.

from A bellyful of roses, Pocket Poets, Ginninderra Press 2018

—

Riverbank way

The ducks meet about the swans
there’s a show of wings for action.

The moorhens aren’t invited
gossip on the sidelines
shush one another when the swans go by.

The seagulls don’t care
catcall from above
get bored and go looking for people.

The swans pretend not to notice
drift with silent intent
stretch their necks for that bit more beak.

The river just smiles and rolls over
belly to the sun.

from What the water & moon gave me, Pocket Poets, Ginninderra Press 2016

—

Visiting hours

Her hands don’t belong here
bewildered starfish beached on the table.
She wants to put them away
with the napkins and knives.

When the doorbell rings she answers the fridge
confused and then thrilled
to see her teeth grinning back.

She thought it’d be her daughter
nods polite to the woman who’s stolen her name.

Later she remembers the time
shuffles in slippers to find it again.

from Smashed glass at midnight, Picaro Poets, Ginninderra Press 2015