Tag Archives: longing

One day

We will crack peppercorns and rub them into our neck for perfume.

When we come to the corner where the stargazer lily edges over the fence

I will say ‘Lean in.



At the point you wobble



into it

We will marvel at the tiny pebbles etched into your knee…

Until the sound of spokes and wheels meet your ears and I witness your ache for age to arrive

For when can you too pedal and glide?

As your body begins to weigh upon mine with the stories you’ve collected this, one day

Your hands will collect the back of my head so you can meet my gleam.

‘How is it…’

we will say

‘…all of this

is ours?’


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I want to own beautiful things.

A hardwood floor

to sprawl about in summer.

A needle

that peaks on vinyl

A rose

that animates the air

before it has been seen.


I want to reside as a dangling bra strap on your shoulder

My eyes to default to the furrowed creases between brow and bristles at your moment of O

My mouth to savour the bare breaths

when you part

my kimono.


I want every pen indentation

to arrest with intonation

that mornings lathering of soap

The groan you couldn’t help

And that era when my name

sounded like love.


I acquiesce

I don’t want

much else


Except perhaps

to see the lakes surface quivering above her privates

To feel

damp clumps of moss mat beneath my bare arse

And to curl

into cotton

And blossoms

as they drop

in the air.

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Forgetting in an age of swipe left, un-follow and delete.

‘I cannot resolve why it is that men go and women stay’.


Of late, I have romanticised the days where a man leaving meant he hunted- tended with the time needed, to those parts of himself only satisfied by wilderness and the kill.

When women stayed to tend to their communities, to feed, nourish and converse.

I do this because, nowadays one cannot truly leave nor truly forget.

If I wanted to find or be found, I can access any number of platforms like Google, Instagram, Facebook, text or email.

And if I wanted to force forgetting there is Internet porn, tinder, grinder, …’unfollow’, swipe left and delete.

I long to be properly missed and to equally go missing; as much as I long to miss my men in a way that the only images retained are the ones we made. Images that I invite back or that come to haunt me when I am open enough to our poetry.

But I am not standing on a shore line under parasol waiting for a sailor to return.  I am not boot-footed in the dust kissing my cowboy before he rides off to chase cattle across the plains. And I am not a daughter with as many friends who share the experience and understanding that – fathers go to work for long periods of time.

I am a millennial sitting at a desk in a new home… And I have turned my phone and my computer off so I cannot see where they are going without me.

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