the air is sharp and still. the water, calm until doppleganger clouds break character, giggling, as trees lean over the river and shake their bits dry. meandering ducks split the horizon and I realise that heaven is just mud and fish but do not mind as daylight cracks overhead and a passing bird I do not recognise pierces the sky with a war cry. soon, poached-egg sun spills its warm, gooey center into our open mouths and stains upturned cheeks.
just like yesterday, we do not care about zigzagging between dead trees and shallow water reeds as we hold our paddles up like hungry children with giant spoons ready to devour the entire world and all of its wild in our very next breath before we do it all over, again and again.
gaia in all her grace, gathers us around her table. she feeds us with tailwind and birdsong, nostalgic singalongs and echoing rock walls. we savour every last scrap before leaving with more sophisticated palates for gratitude. nourished, the zing of woodfire conversations and charred-stars remain, inexplicable, on the tips of our tongues.
I keep the curtains shut
at my tiny box of a home,
as if that makes it oblivious
to the laws of time and space.
Responsibilities are crumpled
at the bottom of the laundry pile,
aspirations, stacked with dirty
dishes in the sink. It has been a
while since I’ve vacuumed the floor,
I may have spilt motivation on it
a couple of weeks ago.
I wonder how long I can stay here
before I unlearn the existence of a
world filled with abstractions, beyond
the lazy grope of tired fingertips?
I could hear in his voice
the conviction of youth
and I wonder if mine
was wasted on a fool
who has chewed down flesh
and bone to leave a terrined-heart
dished out, cold.
Do boys like to wear suits and
swirl wine, slice through
boundaries like butter
because they think that anything
in the world can be bought by paper,
and if not, they’ll burn
it down instead?
They wear metal on wrist
and hold metal in hand,
thinking they were born
as natural protagonists, except
sometimes forests are not yours
to cut down or even explore,
who gave you permission
to scale these walls?
she was never yours to save.
Now, I’m not saying women
are any better at sorting through
this tangled ball of fate and quick
mistakes, but I have always envied
the rain for how it melts into waterfalls
and I could always trust the ocean
to cleanse any small cut or graze.
she feels safe,
maybe soon the hesitation
one day, a lonely boy
builds a dingy raft
out of empty vodka bottles
and sets out to sea, so he
does not have to see
straight, ever again.
he prays for merciless waves to
crash and roar, overwhelm the silence
of strangers on the shore too afraid of
getting their toes wet, he wants to drown out
the whispers of wayward ghosts luring
him into the murky depths of despair.
maybe the wind can carry his listless
body to shore or at worst salt-water can
hug his lungs and sting the open wounds
of his heart like hickeys or lighting,
forecasting the long overdue iris rain.