izzy

my chest is a cave
walking home at 3am,
filled with fog and red sandstone
freezing cold and it’s fucking
beautiful
and romantic as shit
spindly trees loom in closer
closer

warm streetlights
stroke my woollen head
cold air licks my face
kisses my eyes

there’s a kid with a scooter
and a water pistol
at the end of the street

we stare each other down
I think ‘it’s a bit late –
surely it’s too late
for this tiny little kid’
(she’s about 8 or 10)
‘for this stout, mean-looking
kid to be out here all alone
with nothing but a water pistol.’

but then the little bastard starts
speeding towards me,
foot scraping away at the pavement
slap slap slapping
face fisted in determination
arm outstretched, pointing that
bloody water pistol
right between my eyes

and I am sitting on a windowsill
smoking air cold as daggers
Maxime speaks in maxims
slips a few more of my ciggies into his pocket –
like I can’t see –
jerk.

and there’s the tiniest flicker of fire
trickling up the walls of my cave
as I lean into this windowsill
and I’m fanning it, blowing at it
asking it to burn brighter, burn a little hotter
so I can stop thinking about the 40 degree heat
calling to me from the other side of the world.

*

sarah

Today, as the roads shimmered like oases
I read that asylum seekers on Manus Island
Are limited to 500 ml of water per day
And in the sweaty dusk, I felt the earth’s curve
And I felt sick.

*