POETRY

DUSK

Ribbons of iridescent starlight

are reflected in the water.

Like broken glass, the river shines.

I went down last night

to feel the cool wind on my cheeks,

and breathe in the damp air.

I just couldn’t get it out of my head.

Two figures standing shoulder to shoulder

with miles between their hearts.

FROM 'ALMOST' TO 'ALWAYS'

Foggy windows obscure the rolling hills outside.

Blurred green flies by me, forests marred by condensation.

Villages nestled into the hills

are specks of tan and brown through the haze.

The tap-tap-tapping of a man’s fingertips on his keyboard

is more steady than the beating of my heart.

His wedding ring catches against a key.

I marvel at the way it glints in the pallid light of the train car.

Outside it begins to rain.

I think of that ruined picnic in June spent shivering in our jackets,

concerts in the open air and ponchos,

hair plastered to our faces, his hand cradling my chin.

We stop at a station halfway between home and him.

I could get off now, turn back and choose safety.

I could, but I can’t.

I fiddle with my necklace and try to keep my breathing even.

The blurred view of the country town is like a painting,

each raindrop a splash of colour on the canvas.

I wonder if he still has the painting I made for him

for Valentine’s Day three years ago.

There’s shouting near the front;

We won’t be moving again any time soon.

Someone has misplaced their ticket.

I turn and draw hearts on the glass.

SCHOOL BUS YELLOW

I see the crease between her brows

Hair streaked with grey and pulled into a tight bun

Shrouded in black she sits at the base of his monument

and hides herself in its shadow

In his hands he clenches yellow flowers

He has tired eyes and wrinkled trousers pleated down the front

His shoes are dark blue, not black, and I was the only one

to notice this faux pas amidst the tragedy

Their umbrellas lie in the grass unused

Their faces were wet before the rain began

Wet like the roads were that Tuesday morning

Their clothing sticks to them like a second skin

His favourite colour was sunshine, the same shade as his hair

The three of us are wearing yellow today – it’s close enough

I cast another glance at the photo on the mantle before leaving

He would have been thirteen today

TEARS ON THE DANCEFLOOR

Skin and hair slick with sweat,

a beat that reverberates in your chest,

everyone you’ve ever known packed into a tiny room,

shoes squeaking against the linoleum,

and you can’t stop crying.

The air is thick and sweet

like cotton candy in your throat.

Moving shadows against multi-coloured lights

the only sign you’re not alone.

You spin the records without looking down.

Are you a DJ or puppeteer?

Controlling their movements with a flick of the wrist.

The same people who once controlled your life

are now at your mercy,

bodies moving as if entranced.

I can’t remember what happened after that.

Perhaps that’s all it was, with no one speaking.

Just the dancefloor,

the people and lights and music,

and I can’t stop crying.