Thunder Heads

The night before the rains I ask you to grieve with me. Imprinting the line of my neck on your bicep, I rehearse your hips storying your scent. Have you not yet learned to read the sky? Did you not know that the clouds mean leaving? Prehaps you didn't believe me; perhaps the monsoon signalled something else to you. The lightening severs the horizon. For my people it has always been this way.

wound care

There are days when the body demands more than the heart can bear. The process of healing cannot keep pace with the whirling dervish of fate. Faith seems to be the only answer; I hedge my bets on satellites and falling fragments of celestial ice. I've been investing my time in growing new skin, in monitoring the exhalation of dirt and damp, building barriers between the world and myself. I miss rolling in the dust with you, but it's just not good for my health.

Excercises in futility

I dove to the bottom of the barrel; scraped the sides until the water ran clear. I got so hooked on satellites until my fingers were scarred with stars. I let the waves break over me to remember the ocean is as high as it is wide. I danced in the quicksand until I learnt how to swim.

an equal and opposite reaction

emerging from the equinox, the shadows of my room no longer soothe, I am dappled and sunkissed, I elope with the rays, strain to capture it in my ribs. this is the perfect season. if I could take fairweather as a lover, i would surrender to the cool dark night. birthing a thousand discarded feathers, christening them duvet and doona and quilt. I ride the seasons as a tourist swims with wild dolphins; with fleeting touchs and minor elations. Click clacking images into an internal slideshow of long forgotten memories.

steam

a deep rumble, and I am almost blown open, this pressure builds below the skin. small potholes leak steam, and I am simmering,unable to discern my direction.

the submerged resurfaces in ice and steam. we will always return to water. weaving through stone, we carve our paths back to our ancestoral homes. in these terrains of contrast, the mind collapses. the mouth it searches for speech. our futures still shrouded, we plunge deeper, never knowing where we will resurface and when.