Category: poetry

Riding on elephants and other shit I haven’t done

Shot a gun ✔ I did my firearms safety training in January, and shot my first pest roo in a string bikini Be afraid. Very afraid.

Gone on a blind date ✔ Oh, the horror.

Skipped school ✔

Watched someone give birth ✔✔ My eldest and youngest nephews, now 14 and 9 respectively. It was an absolute honour.

Watched someone die ✔✔✔✔ I think I’ve got this one covered.

Visited Canada ✔ It was lovely. I spent most of it inebriated, writing by a fire, and sledding with huskies.

Visited Hawaii ✔ Does the airport count?

Visited Europe

Visited Las Vegas ⊗ I couldn’t think of anywhere worse.

Visited Asia  India is in my future!

Visited Africa ⊗ I’ve long had visions of dancing on a beach in Zanzibar in a string bikini drinking sangria. Seriously. Except I don’t drink – make the requisite sangria an iced tea, thanks.

Visited Egypt

Seen the Grand Canyon in person 

Flown in a helicopter 

Served on a jury 

(as a point of reference, my mother has done all three ^^)

Cried yourself to sleep ✔✔✔✔✔✔✔

Recently coloured with pencils ✔ I didn’t colour as a child – I read and wrote. Taking the time to colour within the lines is fun, yet meditative gives me fucking anxiety. Not joking.

Sang karaoke ✔ 
With gusto. With my native lungs, I was in tune. Not so much after my transplant.

Paid for a meal with coins only ✔

Made prank phone calls ✔ Hey, I was young …

Been honoured with fireworks ✔ Yes! I was born on New Year’s Eve, so for my 21st I had a huge party because I’d survived twenty-one years with CF. My folks organised the crew who do the Brisbane city fireworks to stop at our place (we were living on the Brissie River) around 9.30pm. They left a whole lot for my Dad and our neighbour to detonate at midnight, and being absolutely hammered, they nearly blew themselves up (that alone was worth seeing – two old blokes jumping around like frogs was fucking hilarious). It was epic and I found out afterwards that people saw them all across the city.

Laughed so much you cried ✔✔✔✔

Caught a snowflake on your tongue ✔

Had children  I found out when I was 16 that I couldn’t have children (severe endometriosis, cystic fibrosis and eventual vulva cancer), so I’ve never had a big ‘oh, fuck I can’t have babies’ moment. It’s just something that’s never been on the table, which doesn’t mean I’ve never been sad about it. My ovaries explode like an atom bomb, and I melt when nursing a baby. Just quietly, I would have been a fucking rad mum. Exhausted, but rad.

Executed successful skinny-dipping *and* nudie runs ✔✔✔✔✔✔✔✔✔✔ Yep. I’ve got those covered, too. In fact, I very nearly got arrested with my bestie’s husband doing a nudie run on a beach.

Abseiled down a building  Would LOVE to. Heights and speed are my thing.

Been camping in a tent ✔

Driven a motorcycle ✔ ⊗ Does being on the back of one count?

Been bungee-jumping  I went sky diving instead. I’ll jump out of a plane, but won’t tie a cord to my legs and then jump. Nup. Not a chance in HELL.

Gone to a drive-in MOVIE ✔ The last time was to see ‘Herbie Goes Bananas’. I would have been around four and remember a human sized banana dancing out the front as we drove in. I was wearing my pyjamas, too.

Done something that could have killed you ✔ Let me count the ways … drugs, for one. I am still genuinely shocked that I am not dead.

Done something that you will regret for the rest of your life  No regrets, just lessons.

Rode an elephant  I don’t know if I could because I love elephants SO hard.

Rode a camel 

Eaten just biscuits, cake or ice cream for dinner ✔ Is this some sort of trick question?

Been on TV ✔ Quite a lot as a kid with the whole CF thing.

Been in a newspaper ✔ Again, quite a lot as a kid and as an adult with CF, transplant, my poetry, and now my deathie work.

Stolen any traffic signs  I suddenly feel cheated. And now I can’t afford to get a conviction because I work for the government.

Been in a car crash ✔✔
 Both were minor, but here’s the kicker – the second was with an unmarked police car the day I found out I had to have a transplant. Top day that was …

Stayed in hospital ✔✔✔✔ WHERE DO I EVEN START WITH THIS.

Donated blood  I can’t because of all the mad medication I’m on for transplant. I so wish I could.

Had to pay a fine in the past 12 months ✔ Fuck you, Brisbane Shitty Council. Better signage would go a long way.

Gotten a piercing ✔ My nose when I was 19, not long after I got my first tattoo.
 Hey, I was in Byron Bay.

Gotten a Tattoo ✔ ✔ I’ve never felt regretsy about either of them.

Ever driven an automatic car ✔ Yep, but I’m a manual maven. Real chicks drive sticks, or something.

Ever owned your dream car ✔

Been Married 

Been divorced  I feel as though I have …
 See also.

Fell in love ✔ Oh my giddy aunt. Madly, passionately and all consuming love? Oh, yes.

Fell out of love ✔ It was awful, for both of us. The guilt was almost insurmountable.

Paid for a stranger’s meal ⊗ I can’t believe I’ve never done this #2016goals

Driven over 100kph ✔ If there’s anyone who has access to a track, I can bring a ’71 E-Type to the table. And yes, it’s a V12.

Worked in a pub ⊗ I’m guessing drinking one out of whiskey and being *asked to leave* doesn’t count?

Been scuba diving  I’m claustrophobic. But I’ve snorkeled in Vanuatu and I loved it because I could, you know, GET UP FOR AIR. Scuba diving would terrify me.

Walked on burning coals  I have no desire to have skin grafts on my feet. I’ve already had them taken from my inner thigh when I had my cuntostomy, so NO.

Eaten snails  Clearly, I haven’t lived.

Swam with dolphins ⊗ ⊗ ⊗  ACHTUNG and fuck to the NO. It’s called animal cruelty, unless they swim up to you in the wild. Go and watch Blackfish.

Swam with sharks  See above.

Lived on your own ✔ Yes. It’s called HEAVEN.

Performed on a stage ✔ I used to. All. The. Fucking. Time. I miss it. I mourn it.

Where in the world are you, Carmen Sandiego?

Life. It gets in the way. That’s why I haven’t blogged for three months because there’s been a lot going on. For the last month or so, I’ve been down with the lurgy (the flu), but after two courses of antibiotics, probiotics, lots of vitamins, good food and rest, I’m on my way to being back to full steam ahead with my year.

Exciting stuff is happening. I’ve been asked to be on the organising committee for next years Spiritual Care Australia conference which will be on the Gold Coast. As a pastoral carer who identifies as ‘spiritual’ but doesn’t belong to a specific faith group, I was so heartened to be invited. I am yet to make it to a meeting because I’ve been unwell, but I’ll make up for it in the months to come.

I cut my hair off last week. It’d been falling out at a rate of knots (ha), and having had it cut shorter, I seem to have stopped shedding. Just like that. It feels strange to be so short (yeah, I know it’s still long, but it was ridiculously long). I’m feeling … fresher. Yeah, that’s it. Fresher. Younger too, which is interesting considering I’m forty this year. I took this this photo after I rolled out of bed for my hairdresser. I know I’m looking a little grey.

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So, here is what’s been happening with me …

Making: Crocheting my first blanket. There will be crying Nicolas Cage style, fist pumping and gallons of tea. My maternal grandmother who taught me how to crochet when I was a little girl would be chuffed.

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Cooking: Chicken soup and green smoothies.

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Drinking: Tea. Endless cups of tea. And kefir. I cannot get enough kefir with a generous dash of honey and cinnamon.

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Wanting: A cabin in the woods/hinterland.

Looking: At cabin porn (there’s a theme emerging, yes?). Clouds at sunset, too.

Dreaming: About toasting marshmallows on the burn pile at the farm.

Playing: Diabetic Wheel of Fortune.

Deciding: What the fuck to have for dinner.

Craving: Sweet milky tea, liquorice and normal blood glucose levels (which are incompatible with liquorice)

Wishing: I was living in northern NSW. I feel between worlds. Or like I need a bridging visa or something.

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Pissed: That I caught the flu and it’s still affecting me a month later … Get the fucking fluvax, people.

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Enjoying: My growing collection of minerals. Or crystals, if you want to call them that.

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Waiting: On more words to come. I know they’re there.

Liking: The unfurling of cooler climes. It was a long, hot summer.

Wondering: If I will ever get this novel finished … #yesiwill

Loving: My new balcony chairs. They are epically comfy.

Considering: Spinning wool, falconry and starting my own religion. The latter would be far more lucrative.

Reading: ‘Norwegian Wood’ by Lars Mytting, ‘Gathering Moss’ by Robin Wall Kimmerer; ‘Konmari’ by Maree Kondo; ‘A Ted Hughes Bestiary’ and ‘Hildegard of Bingen’s Medicine’ by Doctors Strehlow and Hertzka.

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Buying: Nothing. I’m Konmari-ing the fuck out of my life. If it doesn’t bring me joy, it goes to charity.

Watching: I just watched ‘Dear Zachary’ and it made me want to cry forever and ever. It’s the most powerful film I’ve seen for some time and will leave you reeling (and needing therapy).

Hoping: That my friends Andrew* and Chief get donor lungs soon. They both have CF and  have had way too many false alarms which is cruel, disheartening and emotionally exhausting. IT’S A GOER FOR CHIEF ON THE SIXTH CALL UP! He’s doing *incredibly* well 🙂

Pondering: How amazing life is being clean. I never thought I could feel this happy. Seriously – have I EVER felt this way? Halcyon days 🙂

Marvelling: At how music makes me feel ALL THE THINGS.

Cringing: That my Jeep needs a new gearbox. Oh, the horror.

Needing: A capsule wardrobe.

Puzzled: That I don’t ever drink coffee in winter.

Questioning: Why so many crap writers get published. I guess mediocrity is on trend.

Smelling: Not much. Since having the flu, my sinuses have been blocked, but today my olfactory senses happily returned and oh! The smell of toast, freshly laundered sheets and chai simmering on the hob – glorious.

Following: My gut. And Marie Kondo. She’s rad.

Wearing: Mecca lip balm. I cannot get enough on my mouth.

Noticing: That I really need to clean my windows.

Knowing: My purpose.

Thinking: I have SO much to do.

Seeing: An overabundance of cranes across the city. All very phallic.

Believing: In fairies and the little people we can’t always see.

Admiring: Anyone who lives with a poo bag.

Believing: In karma. Because I have to.

Sorting: Through my possessions and giving a lot of stuff away. Liberating much?

Getting: Organised to launch a big community project that I can’t tell you about. It is super exciting and slightly terrifying knowing that a friend and I are putting ourselves on the line for what we feel is for the greater good.

Gathering: Resources and support for said project.

Cultivating: Kindness, candida (sexy, right? Thanks antibiotics!), and garden ideas.

Bookmarking: Where do I start? Psychedelics in dying, extreme knitting, cob houses and the small house movement, India, birds of prey & falconry, granny squares, aromatherapy, epigenetics.

Disliking: Where my neighbourhood is heading. Think big corporates moving in, mass gentrification and hideous high-rises that hopefully no one will want to buy. I foresee a glut.

Coveting: A spell that makes me write 10,000 words a day, knowing full well that no such thing exists. The only way is ass glue and a warm teapot within reach.

Opening: Bottles of kefir like they’re going out of fashion.

Giggling: At finding feathers at the most serendipitous of times. My mantra of ‘look up, look down’ has been serving me well.

Feeling: Ready to replant my garden with the help of Mum’s green thumbs.

Snacking: I wish it was medicinal liquorice, but it’s raw veggies with cottage cheese. Don’t knock it ’til you’ve tried it.

Helping: Shit stir the big developers who are trying to ruin my community and create change by lobbying, petitioning, opposing etc.

Hearing: Fleet Foxes and the noble chatter of crows.

Trying: To spend more time offline and in nature.

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(image from https://nostalgichobo.wordpress.com)

Thanks to Pip at Meet Me at Mikes for such a cool list 🙂

*Sadly Andy died a few months after I wrote this. He will be eternally missed.

My new normal

I’m just about jumping out of my skin. I had my first good night’s sleep in eleven days, so I’m feeling rested. I’ve been waking up around 4-5am, which is not the norm for me. I’ve never been a morning person, though when I first moved into my beloved flat I became one of those morning people. I’d brew a coffee, take it out onto my balcony and look out on the morning. I’d managed to draw a line between happiness and appreciation – a thickly painted line, slapped on with a wide, bristly brush and broad, unsteady strokes. I’d fill my lungs with air, celebrating the beauty and freedom of breath.

Every Saturday, I’d walk to the bakery where I’d treat myself to one or three of these great big, hunking German doughnuts called Berliners. I’d have a chat to the bakery dude and toddle off home to warm my doughnut (not a euphemism), then I’d sit down with the weekend papers and a cuppa. I’ll admit it – I’m a girl who respects ritual.

For the two years or so I was high, I slept and became a shadow of myself. I sliced myself thin as I burrowed my way further down the rabbit hole. I wasn’t achieving anything because being high precludes you from being productive in any way, shape or form. They were wasted years, and years I didn’t have the right to waste. I’ve been on borrowed time since I had my transplant. I know that. But now that I’m off the gear, I’ve been wondering if this is what my life will be like now. Is this what my life would have been like had I not been addicted to drugs? Early mornings full of joy instead of the dread of where my next hit was coming from, believing that the drugs were somehow helping me? The drugs did help for a time when I was using them for legitimate pain, but before I knew it they owned me and it was like taking out a loan I could never repay.

My pleasure senses were dulled to the point where I just wanted to take my next pill, and I was suffering – truly suffering – from anhedonia, which is when your pleasure receptors basically switch off. My brain wanted what my brain wanted, and that was more of the same. There was littlejoy, no moments of natural euphoria and I was constantly exhausted. I couldn’t write. I had trouble reading.

When I was rationing tablets in Barcaldine in 2013 and getting restless limbs/akathisia, I knew I needed help. I started researching what drugs do to your brain. After all, I was already well aware what they had done to my spirit. I looked at Narcotics Anonymous, and worked out it wasn’t for me. I found my addiction therapy doctor, started opiate antagonist therapy, and the rest is history.

I’ve mentioned this before, but when I did my TEDx talk last year, I was unable to memorise my twenty minute speech. For someone with a near photographic memory, that was quite distressing. My brain was recovering from drug abuse, and I still don’t know how much they have impacted my brain function. I had some pretty hairy moments when I’d taken too much oxycodone and my respiratory system became depressed. I’d have heart palpitations, and one day I had to give myself CPR for about twenty minutes after I had overdosed. I was in acute tachycardia and I didn’t know if my heart had been damaged. It still shocks me that I’m not an overdose statistic.

For me, having a terminal illness gave me an acute absence of fear. I grew up fearless, loud and fierce, and I took more risks because a terminal illness is like having permission slip to engage in risk taking behaviours. It’s well documented that people with a life-limiting illness take more risks than people who don’t have a closer ‘use by date’. There’s a sub-culture of the fearless; tattoos, collecting exotic pets, dangerous friends and dangerous habits. I know a lot of people with illness who favour driving fast cars and adrenalin sports. But you also seek your own truth and authenticity, which is far more admirable. It’s that whole, ‘do no harm but take no shit’ dictum.

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Image courtesy of Laura Lwin

I’ve been asking and answering a lot of questions about myself of late – a little introspection, if you will. Ruminating over what my life would or could have been like had my addiction not consumed me. But it did, and I’ve never been one for having regrets. For me, they’re lessons. Regrets stifle your present and paralyse your future.

And another lesson – age is a privilege. I turn 39 tomorrow. Every extra year has been such a gift, and I’m revelling in moving on with life armed with respect, gratitude, boundaries and a sense of responsibility to NOT FUCK THIS UP. The good news is that I can’t see that happening because I’m in the midst of a passionate and fervid affair with my life, my friends and family, my writing and my work. Speaking of friends, on Sunday night, I went out with three of my nearest and dearest – one friend I went to both primary and high school with. It was pretty bloody special.

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Leg show.

Tomorrow I’m driving down to my friend’s farm in northern New South Wales where we will celebrate my birthday and turn the sod for the new year. The silence, being in nature, that grasp of acuity, the cattle, and the trees embroidered with birdlife seem to be a panacea for city life. And just so you know, I’m not into resolutions – I’m into revolutions. At the end of the day, we are the product of our choices.

Have a Happy New Year, one and all. Big, BIG love. Oh, and here’s a little poem I wrote back in 2004 on the day I left Canada to travel to see my friend artist George Bleich in Carmel-By-The-Sea. Here we are back in 2004 and here is my tree, The Lone Cypress. Now that’s another story …

 

Firs only sleep

when branches draped in white

fall with  frigid arms, then pitch upward like an angry child

when the sun passes through them like a mood;

never knowing to swing a bitter heat to pat down the ground below

 

Firs only sleep

when concrete skies close over like a skullcap.

The sky yields to a day hue,

leading to kingfisher blue skies

peppered with stars and Luna

until the spring, when they are free.

The bitter taste of defeat and failure

Always expect the unexpected. Be prepared like a girl scout without the rules (but with the cookies). That’s always been one of my life’s mottos. After taking my last ever dose of opiate antagonist therapy last Friday, I was relieved when I only had some minor restless limbs when I turned in for bed that evening. I had been on the lowest dose possible, so I couldn’t have predicted what was going to happen next. On Saturday night, I drove up the coast for a prawn fest and I lay awake all night. I only had a couple of ‘punches’, in that my arms went a little haywire and my legs were sore, but it was nothing I couldn’t handle.

I’ve always adhered to the adage that our hell is here on earth, and on Sunday night, that was very much the case. My legs were kicking uncontrollably, my arms were punching like I was in the ring with Danny Green (I would’ve been half a chance, too). Good old akathisia (restless legs) had consumed my muscles and seemingly, my bones. Even my chest was doing the pop and drop. At first I read about what I could do to alleviate the symptoms, but after a few hours I was in a really bad place. In fact, I was actually quite stricken. So much so that I nearly called paramedics.

I tried laying on the floor. I tried massaging my legs. I tried star jumps and jogging on the spot – which worked – until I stopped moving. I tried stretching. I swore – a lot – and then I cried. I cried with fear and frustration. Basically, if I had ben a crab I would have kicked my flesh out of my shell. Instead, I took a dose of buprenorphine, the very stuff I had just stopped taking, hoping it would calm my body and I’d stop kicking like a cocky prize fighter. Thankfully it did, but these decisions carry a cost. I felt like an abject failure. The last thing I was expecting (or wanting) to do was to ‘dose’ again, but it was all I could do after a few hours of kicking the shit out of the air and blankets and becoming increasingly distressed to the point where I actually thought it was going to kill me. I nearly called paramedics. I guess panic and great suffering will do that. Ah, the bitter taste of defeat.

After discussing some options with one of the pharmacists from the transplant team the next morning, I went to see my GP who was happy to prescribe me with a muscle relaxant, but we were also keen to try a more conservative approach of tonic water (for the quinine), epsom salts baths, magnesium therapy and then the muscle relaxants. A bath, coupled with Nina Simone soothed me greatly, and the quadruple therapy approach worked a treat. I slept. Not a single twitch. In fact, I woke up smiling.

But before I slept, I had to get the fuck over myself and my feelings of worthlessness and failure. My doctor laid my feelings of failure to rest after assuring me that I’d done incredibly well and that these things happen. They may be unexpected, but they happen.

I wish I could be far more noble and say that the suffering was worth it, but I can’t. Last night I managed to drop my dose of muscle relaxant which I see as a win, so I’ll aim to decrease the dose again this evening.

It’s awfully liberating having a full bottle of diazepam in my possession, and not feel at all inclined to abuse it. I actually couldn’t think of anything worse; those feelings of failure simply aren’t worth it. But I’ll tell you what IS.

Today I walked into the chemist I’ve been going to for just over two years where I saw my favourite pharm-boy for the last time at the ‘junkie counter’. Let’s call him D. D was so bloody happy that I’d been able to stop taking the medication and didn’t need any more for the rest of the year. I was officially off the books. Another lovely pharmacist who had dosed me a couple of weeks ago also passed on her congrats. D and I shared a big hug and we had a chat about Christmas. Hugs are better than drugs, people! I thought they’d be glad to see the back of me, but they asked me to pop in and say hello when I’m passing by. Here’s hoping the hugs are requisite with each visit.

I must extend my gratitude for being treated with respect and not as a person of failure and inadequacy who didn’t deserve kindness because of my addiction issues. The pharmacy I go to treats everyone with the respect they deserve, and I’ll never forget that kindness, compassion and how they never brought my dignity into question.

This evening I’m feeling less of a failure and more like a warrior; a survivor. I managed to do 95% of my Christmas shopping in record time yesterday and right now I’m working on a elegiac poem for a fellow poet and friend who died last year. I miss him. I miss his humour, his spirit and his ability to turn a few words into masterpieces. The tug of death was too strong for Matthew, and the world is a poorer place without his presence.

So I guess this is where I wish you all a Merry Christmas even though Christmas can be an incredibly challenging time of year for so many. My hope is that whatever you choose to do – or not do – makes you happy and settles your soul. This cover of The Boss’s ‘I’m on fire’ by Matt Andersen always moves me. Big love to all.

 

Poem in Cordite Poetry Review

Pinch and a punch and white rabbits to you on this, the first day of November. I’m stoked to share my poem ‘Chemistry’ with you which has was chosen for Cordite Poetry Review’s ‘Toil’ issue. It’s the second poem of mine that Cordite have ever so kindly published and I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I loved writing it.

I have to say that I’m very happy with the way this poem turned out. I wrote it back in winter, and if you think this piece has some deeply romantic undertones in it, then you’d be right.

Happy Birthday, M

For M.E.B


We became another death

(the fulfilment of my internship).

Like a false syncope,

my grief would not let me claim you.



You came to me with bleeding gums and a dent in your jaw,

your broken gait like a barber cutting through

walls of plasticine with blunt scissors.

Bruised pride; your face a field of stubble I so loved jiving on my skin.

But first …



you were an uncertain algorithm of desire –

because you were never going to want me the way I wanted you.

Except, on a summer’s day, under umlauts of clouds, close to the border,

we pushed a kiss right through our chests like a bullet.

I was yours and you were mine and before we came up for air,

the earth had spun off its axis.



Purling into webs of light –

the softness of your cupped hands under my sunburned chin as we

tasted each other for the first time.

As salt danced across our skin, I ploughed my fingers through your hair

as clouds climbed behind us, then sunk with the sun like sabbath.



We cut our teeth on summer.

Sticky and wet like puppets of nature.

A curtain of devotion and great folly –

I grew attached to your shadow.

I’d fall off our bed of sin as you made me come to Bach,

and you would tell me stories of how you skulked up and down Cavill mall,

devout in your pilgrimage to find me on that first night at Schoolies.

You told me you would cry as you watched me sleep;

my childishly freckled cheek hemmed in by swathes of blonde hair.

You would wash your hands with such care in the darkness

(I liked to watch your panoptic palms somersault under tendrils of water)



You would drive along the rivers reach looking for me.

Once, I saw you.

I ran as fast as my body could with bleeding lungs,

but you never saw me.

I was jealous of the wind with its fingers in your hair.



Climbing lovingly into winter bones,

we knitted our bodies into an impenetrable pod where no one could touch us.

We shunned the world with aching hips and salty flesh

stuffing our mouths full, speaking a language only we knew –

believing ‘there is nothing else worth living for other than this’. You.



But I heard church bells pealing from promises that would bleed;

fistulas of memory fractured a fall and I began barking time;

howling spoonfuls of dirt into your mouth

your perfect fucking mouth

always open for mine;

a receptacle of love and all that was good in our world.

You tried.

You were unmoving in arresting us in that space as I jettisoned the indifference,

but we rolled away from each other as old mountains do,

and I began to not love us.



I garrotted you,

throwing you from your skin;

bones akimbo to the wind,

leaving a frayed man like a barometer of truth.

Fall in, fall out.

With the biting sick that bored into my body,

you were gone.



You never got to hear my new voice

or sweep the pads of your fingers over my new scars.

I can’t sing anymore, but my hair is long just as it was that first night you saw me

shuffling across blue linoleum in dimmed hospital corridors.

(I go out walking, after midnight, in the moonlight, just like we used to do.

I’m always walking after midnight, searching for you) 



Seeking out the ground with eyes I put to bed so many years ago,

I would give you my grace (or cleave the moon in two)

but you will not let me.

So I press my fingers into the rivulets of my palms

knowing we will meet when the streets glow in their silence.

Throbbing asphalt still hot from the burning day –

just like our first days of warm hands and cold feet.



Like a splintered shard of shrapnel that will always itch under my skin,

I will always be that woman who loves you.


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‘think of me when you sleep,

warm heart, cold feet.

In your dreams we will meet, 

together soft and deep.

Wish I could be there with you now,

all my love and desire. 

I think of you in despair

oh, when will I meet you there?

Not long, one more sleep,

think of me – warm heart, cold feet.’

– M.E.B 1995

This.