Life is —
a retired mother vacuums an empty house, implores the quiet spaces for response
and feels an overflow threaten her eyes when she understands
the sand blasted beach cottage where family mosquito-plagued board games
inevitably descended into
memories of a chance encounter. A night when soft lips held a smile at rest,
begging to be joined by his coarser embrace and to remind him
silent Christmas mornings, when no one else is awake apart from a parrot at the
feeder, feel like
the sorrowful waiting room dictating one visitor at a time transforms the vending
machine into a monster and only serves to accentuate
the gravity of a child’s giggling first step across unforgiving linoleum floor is as pure as
a fifteen kilometre walk to the family’s water source allows the necessary time to
think about
one gull in flight, so unmistakably wise and independent riding the updraft, can
see even better than
the most astute commentator may unmask government failings but will never
remove their own façade to comprehend the
sound of waves, ten feet above tingling skin, in an ocean without fear is the closest
one can come to
the feeling of a wedding day, when the flowers are fresh, lasts as long as
the time it takes to cross a loud, disconnected stranger-infested intersection is
enough to realise
we will never know enough about each other’s insides to uncover why
so many lost people are misunderstood and dismissed by those who are as ignorant as
a film star is everything you want to be, then in any interview is never the human you
want them to be but
music is always best experienced alone at night amongst slices of moonlight
while you imagine
the things you write under the sun but would never utter aloud except to
a pet is the kindest listener because they rarely pass judgement and you believe
they can’t translate
your emotions catch you napping in the merciless afternoons and none are as
complex as
the idea of love seems both tangible and foreign when you gaze upon
a sharp petite face you’ve just whispered a secret to, trusting them to keep it in
confidence so no one ever knows
a tiny green caterpillar arches its face skyward through the long grass, completely
unaware
that a baby is cradled by an arm of the church, gently wet and forced to follow
Jesus without a voice to speak while
the last bus recedes before she could reach it, and as the rain explodes on the
footpath, a hooded girl is waiting
for a young man who takes pale steps through a crowded room full of old people,
one woman repeating ‘nice to meet you’ to her daughter, to where his
grandfather is
listening intently before being questioned, the light in a politician’s eyes shifts in
shade and he spreads his hands; about to elucidate
all is not lost but we are always alone. That’s why misty-faced soldiers
never stay for long even though the beautiful bodies of blonde, mid-twenties, skinny
dippers at midnight speak of hope
when her lips meet his eyes he’s never seen such a complicated twist and neither can
say what they want because
friendship can seem so much easier when a smooth brown horse sharing straw and
sawdust in silent companionship with a farm dog explains
that even the weakest solitary iceberg, accosted from every angle, never becomes soft
but that doesn’t stop it
— disappearing