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
essays | fiction | poetry | photography | art
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
That albino slug
looks like mobile marzipan,
bending its neck for a nap
in the stitchwort
tufted beside the road.
You slid the nit comb through my hair
then rinsed and laughed about how
you loved hunting them down
legs floating, brush of seaweed
bulging water moves us
up and down
the shore seems very far away
If you walk along a path
between forest and shore
between grains eroded by the sea
they were mountains once
I found that writing and art keep me sane, they’re like a room of my own in a time when I’m rarely alone.
Am I livestock or the boning knife?
Amongst the timid lambs, half-dreaming
My family observes the emu cage. Beaks so vengeful, I realise we’re taking the piss.
I first saw her walking,
the folds of her ink blue dress
turning the earth;
But from time to time it does exist. Something like a stray lash under the eyelid
trying to catch its last breath.