Look up at the moon, I am not your moon.
I am the woman on the riverbed, hair
rooted to the sediment, next to you
and together we nurtured the ground to bloom
a lotus of lapis lazuli.
Piercing the silk of the water
like the opening of an eye, a honey pupil
haloed in a sand mandala on the riverbed
tracing the tides of our lives as scribe to a subject.
A silent shrine — where in quiet moments of intimacy prayers steered inflections on the hands that stitched coloured sands to a tapestry — the salting of plans…
Streetlights on the Anzac bridge mirror
Orange chrome stippled on the skin of the water
Painted with oil, to Vermeer’s delight
Four years I walked this route
immersed in the cyclical beauty of everyday life
Cars compete with the conch shell for an Ear to inform of a desperate commute And all the things it’s passengers, just Absolutely, must get home on time to do (You see, the longing and agony for home Sends shivers through bridges and rustles Orange chrome) To land at LEGO blocks of houses of glass Dioramas, with free to view living rooms Act as voyeurs…
carnation, lily, lily, rose
my Granny’s favourite flowers poised to the left of the front door
the Turkish carpet inched itself away from the lilies
I would straighten the carpet from time to time
line it up with the door and the ascent of stairs in frame
only by dinner was it poised to the right again, tassels flared and astray
poisoned by lilies, using stampeding feet to angle away
i liked the lilies so disobeyed instructions not to touch
i stroked the anthers, staining my fingers with tangerine dust
carnation, lily, lily, rose the dining room was painted a…
Environmental law student & artist living in Sydney. Lover of Mary Oliver, Czesław Miłosz and neon colours.