One Hundred and Thirty-Two.


Izzy circle


stubbornly rooted in the family plot, you stand
amongst the labyrinth of wild blackberries
the quiet clearings held together by languid gums
and the gullies burbling like giggling children

sawtooth chewing through wet wood
breaking bark and spitting out the pulp
each log thumping to the ground a bruised fist
we will make this house, we will make it a home

build some wax wings with the twigs for tinder
take flight, forget the smell of the undergrowth
or stay. fold the light up in the banksia when it flowers
you are untranslatable to the cold and weak sunlight.


Sarah circle


The wind blows a little sweeter where he fell
Seventeen years from the cradle to the mud
Where the scar-crossed earth stood witness
To see him caught in the chest as he ran
With his arms out and his eyes wide
Looking for all the world like he’d just seen his sweetheart
Standing in her best white dress just over the hill
And a spot of red bloomed in his breast pocket
As though his heart had burst for the love of her
And his mouth flew open in shock, or hope, or delight
And he toppled into the muck as though it were her arms



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