sans
I.
it is all ceremony
it is all the cloths
all gathered-in
it is white tailor’s chalk
in a neat triangle
it is the blanket-stitch
before the machine
it is the neighbour woman
with her bone-pick
pulling stitches
one by one
from the curtain lining
the [bone-pick] is ivory coloured
a little larger than a [tooth-pick]
nubbed to cradle under the silks
and lift them up
so she can snip it at the ties
II.
the little knot hidden in back of the material stretched out across her knees is silver
the thread is doubled-to
the material is some floral-stuff on white laid onto a cream skirting
she will rinse it out in cold water later
and hang it on the monday line the blue-blue rope of the monday line
the length of material
is clean / sweaty from her handiwork
she will hang it over the gauze of her nets which are always immaculate
her effort is blind/
she does not need eyes to feel her work her gathering-to of the pleats
‘Sans’ published The Southword Journal
hunger
outside the ragged bird tears
dead flies from window nets
and it is not clothed right
– it claws the glass
suspend I
from the mirror architrave
float down silken threads
they are not blackened yet
from the branches they reach down
laden with fruit
out on the limb
birds beat them for desiccated meat
making sweetmeats for desperate bills
a man is clipping the edges with steel
season’s treachery
suspend I
from the mirror architrave
float down silken threads
they are not blackened yet
from the ceiling hooks
float down wisps of
red thread – almost
cobweb light she is
arched back unsure
whether to suspend
burnt orange silks
cover the shutters
there are children in the street
she is nonetheless
quite bound-up
in red ropes
from loop at nape
and length of torso
it is peaceful
being spider-rolled
webbed-in and arched
as if a
bird swoops down
behind the orange silks
shiftshape-in
suspend I
as if
she were an exotic fruit
a seed caught in breeze
from the mirror architrave
float down silken threads
they are not blackened yet
cobweb light she is
arched back unsure
whether to suspend
in the red threads
that loop at her nape
down the length
of her torso
dividing and opening
her out achingly
if she moves the
threads will tighten
the harpies are perched in the suicide-trees
Hunger, published Ditch Poetry
hooks
a hook for an eye
this ribbon for a slip
there’s a pigeon in the pot
and tree makes the room
your foot on the boards
your head in the sky
no mind if your stockings snag
are splinter-caught
the red thread
frayed or snag
walk now on swollen feet
on feet that are bound-in
with red and orange
with stocking threads
these can be mended
these can be made whole again
you wouldn’t even
notice the tear
we are so good
at what we do
neat and tight
no pain no gain
for the ragged flower
hooks
gauze dries into the stitched wound
where the tender-care of hands tug
to redress to change to douse stitches
with a brown liquid stuff
it dyes the skin a type of clinical colour
but with so tender a care -
the split wound of vaginal mutilation
is less easy to care for
no gauze can be safe at depth of
and thus submersion-in salt baths
whilst the jagged edges gather to
as mended sails, as canvas-stuff
as linen-stuff
you can tell at a distance that
a woman has a scar that snakes up
by the cast of her foot
the heel-down look
those stitches are insoluble
hold-to
the birth passage
for the next opening
hooks
the feather-hook is a seed spiralling in the breeze,
a false signal
it mocks the mayhem of the caught moth down to
its nub stone
its plane is a shell network of dried skin, veined even
– it has a spine of sorts
it mocks the mayhem of the caught moth down to
its nub stone
‘Hooks’ published in ANU #10 |
