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
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
I want to own beautiful things.
A hardwood floor
to sprawl about in summer.
that peaks on vinyl
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
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 don’t want
to see the lakes surface quivering above her privates
damp clumps of moss mat beneath my bare arse
And to curl
as they drop
in the air.
‘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.