Tag Archives: writing

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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I wish I did not write about love. 

I wish I had not let them brand me. 

If I am on the market 

How will people know if this subject 

is the only way I’m in print?
I wish I did not write about nature

Specifically how it makes my ovaries blossom. 

If I am only fertile these few more years

All ready engraved in pollen 

How will anything other than sticky stamen penetrate? 
I wish I did not write about Venus. 

She gives away my distance, timing and rotation. 

If I am not pulled by internet routers 


Turned out from churning oceans

Pearl soaked

How will I find connection? 
I wish I did not write about you. 


who have folded language over in the mouth so it

Curses in hisses of spit and sputum. 

If I am to share saliva again

How can I turn my tongue over? 
I wish I had not written.

Pen and paper has given me away. 

Perhaps though in ink 

You could endorse this woman’s indentations. 

I am simply blotched 


Bleeding about the page like the rest of you. 
Press me to your adjoining pages 

I will etch in so you read me well. 

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Today she thought 

I miss being a girl. 
How many times these months

chants & championing 

The words 

woman & strong 

impregnated so as she might erupt

An Orphic egg

Spit out a new cosmos amongst the darkness


Create from the wound. 
She was sorry to let the universe down. 
But when she buckled up her own helmet before riding 

when she took her own hand to cross the road against the lights   

She shuffled her feet at the curb & breathed

‘All the women in me are tired. 

I miss being someone’s girl’. 

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Come in.

Lay your body down.

This place

it is

a refuge.



…with your armor up

…and your iron eyes

…and your stiffened lips

Unfurl your hair

let it avalanche down your steel shoulders

and flush cheek bone

and breast.


Come in.

Lay your body down.

This place

it is

a refuge.

Tell me your stories

Let your tongue tease out the learning

Your muscles ease out the burning

and your heart

so swollen

…let it leech out for awhile.


Give. me. your. lungs. warrior.

A baby would know what to do under such circumstances.

I am giving you permission to do the same.

Make your mournful sounds.

You have not forgotten how

only pretended.


Give. me. your. salt. warrior.

Your lacrimation will be a final desalination

Through pores

excrete what your body can no longer contain.

I will gather the delicate crystalline in my palms

and with index finger and thumb

we will use it to season

what. comes. next.


Come in.

Lay your body down.

Dear warrior

This place

it is

your refuge.


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My morning glory 

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I started with a cool 2 billion.

I was a ‘high roller’.

I lost 11,000 a month. 

I laid them out like bargaining chips for love. 

A Dr. told me I’d been a fool then asked for more of them: 

‘I’ll take 300 for 10 grand’. 

But even she couldn’t give me any guarantees. 

As a 37 year old woman I’m learning there is a price you pay for love. 

I went to do the maths in fact and found myself dropping cartons at Coles with every zero that racked up on my phone. 

The store cleaner looked at all the shells, yolk and white around me.

‘You’ll have to pay for those’ they said. 

‘I already have’ I replied. 

‘I started with a cool 2 billion’.

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A Time for Lovers


If it was the cool beginnings of winter that made his kisses visible in the dark night air,

she wondered why,

all flushed cheeks under the shelter of a bus stop in the middle of nowhere –

why summer was so often written as the time for lovers.


skin prickling, bubbling, upwards,

silence only breaking in the rustling of jackets and tongues warm beyond cold lips

…surely this was the season for lovers.

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