I get lost in the soft tips of the cedar tree
hanging over the fence
My parents melt into deckchairs
like American cheese
essays | fiction | poetry | photography | art
I get lost in the soft tips of the cedar tree
hanging over the fence
My parents melt into deckchairs
like American cheese
Sipping on our black coffee, my grandad and I sit together in his living room every morning. We drift between comfortable silence, where I return to my book, he returns to his paper, and short bursts of conversation. A new restaurant is opening in town, he says. I called the bank earlier, I say. What time do you start work, he asks. Yes, I will remember my umbrella, I respond.
I remember the shape of the word rainbow
on her puckered mouth, how we sounded
it out from my bedroom window.
How did a barrel-chested man learn
this magic? Softened like golden butter
in a dizzy aftermath, he did too many wars perhaps.
Rain upon me your turbulent tales of locker-side loves,
the gossip of girls whose braces still encase their molars
Just as Hemlock
digs its graves in the
carrot family plot
So next time you feel so anxious that you can hardly unlock the door,
remember that the world holds your feet
First day of the World Series,
autumn hanging on, each tree
seeing who can keep from
being a skeleton the longest
I see you standing there – starch white lungi draped
7AM freshly shaved – wooden spoon in hand
Commanding your caramelising populace.
one bright red strawberry on the strawberry plant
mist still low, tangled in the branches of olive trees
the way the pomegranates hang low
with the burden of their own weight
The past peels me off like red pared down to
parent rock (think barn, cadaver, three-wheeled
wagon upended in the bee garden).
My hand slips—crushed pepper
fills the pot, the water is boiling
not simmering as you said, you said
I needed to be careful, but look now