The rivers came rushing in

on a lovely, lonely night

down each hollow of my shoulders:

dying me blue, where wildness swims.

I felt that

a cold rush from the outside

taking ahold, syntax altered in waves:

words taking shapes that bump each other.

Tell me, how do I ungaze?

my words are tangled, I am heavy

tired of seeing the faces of many

short lived places.

They won’t wash:

the wildness splashes at my belly

their kindness drips all over me;

I wish they weren’t blue.


My legs shake

afraid of the zesty child

chipping like the white paint

that cover the walls of the house

now inside a sinkhole.

We’ve tinkered with it enough

the cracks and tears have already won

devastation deserving of medals

as we reason with the loss of her

buried inside her folding carcass.

But some nights our hands

still cup the lonely silt remains

belonging to this deadbeat land

spoiling our feathered fingers

too afraid she’ll be forgotten.

I’m scared she’ll keep us down there

to linger without lungfuls of sunshine

peeping through cotton mountains

we can see with care

through sofas wedged together.

I can hear the gentle noises as swift

as the sound of breaking bones

through the ribs of floorboard

she’s too shy to show-

too shy to spill her grief.


Sisters, we shall not be bruised

however long this strive may be:

we are architects, building anew

we are tall and arresting structures

rising artwork and free thinkers,

pinning own dreams from

self-made visions;

rather, we do not bend or listen

to the backwardly misinformed

or the people assessing us

when their slurs and taxes

are the only things

messing with forwards.

Today, sisters

we have the same right to life

to rally, bejewelled

alive in bedlam

and climb outside our heads

to bring ‘woman’ back from

the dead.

Discerning our concerns

is learning

to be icons of tenderness

of compassion

and of welcoming the wetness

when our voices pour like rain.


I look to the fire below, and I’m mesmerized

playing in the surf, of worlds inside our heads

red lightning beneath our feet

and I’m hypnotized.

The surface finally rips, eyes open wide

pulled under, its you that I lift

my gentle and kind.

I saw myself pull in two, falling

wrapping flesh round the other, a monsoon

of colour on the darkest night

carried by the tide.



she doesn’t fit into the same jeans

folded in the drawer in her room;

the ones with the scuffed knees

disclosing dirty bones.

She’s reached for the same clothes

in the same closet

where the monster feared most

made instruments from hangers

and hid teeth in her pockets.

Except there is no monster

but skeletons, rotten reminders

hidden carefully between coats

ugly truth in shoe-boxes

ghosts that haven’t outgrown her


like the man she turned down

or the flowers that never bloomed.