Alexandra Burns13 February 2018
When the memories flood through her skin
like milk – when you pour it into porridge,
Her world melts.
I took aim, and released.
Mushroom clouds snapped apart;
a wafer-thin crunch,
a child treading on dry leaves,
dust gliding aimlessly against light.
But I could do it, you know?
Take the banksia in my hands and
vase it, for the chance
of sucking honey from the world
as we bow to one another.
Taking his place,
I sat the first time, eager, in pain,
numerous nurses cautioning me against
curiosity, but all I saw out the window
was a block of red bricks, a wall.
I’m entranced by lighting stores
imagining our kitchen
and how it would feel when one day
you were home.
Holding doors open for
people, hoping they’ll open too
and embrace her,
Talk to her, thank her.
I haven’t been kissed in so long.
When everyone is tucked
between bedsheets stuffed with
love and honeycomb (because
I can tell you everything about natural history
Museums – the two kinds of dinosaur hips:
you say: two people crossing on
a flight of stairs is bad luck – you
can feel the ghosts trying
to reach out through the sudden
confusion of space –
You sit with me
eating mandarins in the field of
sunflowers that hide us,
Spitting pips sucked on
back and forth.
Content warning: violence, gore
the curls abound your head
you liked them, you said
I’ll keep them for you
next to the others too.
she likes to be cosy
not warm but
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