Speaking with Alecia

some days the sun bays red for blood
and I hear you
“let me dance let me dance feel rhythm pulse my blood
let me stand up dance and pretend that I am free
or show me your smile”

and I see us
in those “dust print circles”
we are holding hands
dancing against the fence of your secret smile
and we are speaking.

I did not understand the words that I wrote
“I’d like you to be happy”
but you took them away with the razor of your heart
“I know why you are sad”

you said
“lets go and watch the fire orbs spin fire spin fire”
for we thought you were a flower
with the sun breaking in your smile
but your blood became a river
and the river was blood

then night
and I am left to strain at the white drift
catch those last traces of your hands ink
plant you, conjure you
speak with the brief brilliance of your smile
in the wake of your words.

Postcard from Sanginngan

before the finger of sun touches the rice fields
i wake
life smells fleetingly of thailand

if you follow the tramp of my thonged feet on this small dirt path you will not step in the puddles. skirt by the muddy edges. step to the side for passing motorbikes. children will peer out from houses. women will look up from scrubbing clothes on rocks by the stream to greet us. turning we wander past fields of greens and corn that ebb into the spreading terraces of rice, spotted with coconut, papaya. banana; rooster, hen and duck.

don't mind me if i lounge on the verandah watching butterflies dance with palms and orchids alike on the breeze that brings the rains. i am pondering the virtues of writing absent friends about the heat, the aesthetics of ubud cafe society, of bali life from three year old eyes, of lotus ponds and carp, of my quiet struggle with colonialism, of the vast and the domestic... but all of these subjects seem to melt away inconsequentially into the simple splendour of the afternoon.

love letter to laos

bumpy songthaew ride bumpy
spine bruised from metal and crammed in
but i’m grinning
like a dog
head out the window in tongue lolling joy at the wind on my face
the glorious green going by

butterflies glance off our wheels and fly through my hair
and on speeds a delicious day
of rain fed lush land
of rice paddy fields and circling mountains

thatched bamboo huts stand on stilts above the dirt and mud
babies rock in the cool under houses
where hen and rooster mate

an old woman shephards geese with a stick
as new born chicks cluck along the bamboo fences

round hairy black hogs and piglets wobble by
hansome cows langish on the road undisturbed by our approaching metal speed

a gaggle of school girls with almond skin and bright umbrellas
laugh and call to each other
waving wide eyed
at the white stranger that is me.

night driving

we are a growling black beast on the highway
travelling into darkness

windows whistling
parting the mist
that rises up into us

luminous insects
shoot by . over . past.

ghost cars
shooting stars
the sickly sweet smell of sugar cane
fields on fire
an owl
a star
a star

II

i am bereft of conversation
sunk in silence
no good at keeping
a tired driver awake

we are night driving
and i am thinking of melissa
cradling a broken wallaby
as if a baby
in all gentleness and love
blood in its ears
warm without breath

we are driving to the forest

in the light before athens

for morning
in the light before Athens
is grubby
white
closed doorways
brilliant blue
walls
drippling wine
and history
a singular church

for morning
following my sense
finds two heels
the friends of dogs
and pebbled pathways
the thin bruise
of thonged feet

i have not opened my mouth
yet wide
my skin shouts country

i have not opened my mouth
yet we’ve met before

here
they know me
as a goddess.

Feed

As I hold you in the crook of my arm, in the deadened city morning,
the low hum of electricity is this grey pre dawns greeting song,
tiny man.

I observe the translucence of your skin,
a long blue vein,
flecks of gold in your sleep thickened lash,
a sea shell ear.

My hands are old under your tiny mitts,
soft as silken pockets and deep warm
your hand holds my finger,
as your tongue presses my nipple for milk.

in the days, waiting

: late afternoon, reading

the fresh
rhythmic drone
of crickets
drops away
to the growling contractions
of thunder
fingers of rain
on tin
a prelude
to a raga

: smoking, on the step

the itch
of mosquitos
on my legs
the rumbling bass
expectant blood
in my body

: walking, to escape

thonged feet
wet
in the long grass
damp heat
seeping
from my pores

: standing, in the creek

thigh deep
in brown water
bubbles rising
underfoot
the murk of leaves

: hesitating, long moments

alone
naked white
before diving

On writing

a letter to you,
from varanasi

should i punctuate
with
"at this moment in time"
"this single eternity"

in order to excuse
any possible future
or this particular past

the word
a second on my pen
committed

is a reality complete

i am bound

to a real trust
of a moments thought

caught
in the solidity of ink

in this moment in time

Salsa

My arm against skin along arm
Moving against eyes on body hips
While wet with sweat against skin
My eyes play on feet
Not to give away into eyes
Lashed deep brown

Where I turn too fast against the distance of other arms

I come back warm to your chest

This play like that before
The relinquish of control
This play of heat
Dance where skin touches skin
You, a man
This play of bodies moving together
Against skin, sweat and beat
Feet pheromones against the step
Beat flicker and signal of eye
Moving against hips
legs arms breath clothes wet
Moving with the play of tension

I turn too fast against the distance of other arms
To come back warm against your chest

a koan

we meet
in a field.

here
drinking bancha tea
at five
each morning.
I am not happy
until lunchtime.

there is no
silence.
Bird, rustle
and breath,
laughter and stick,
the light of note
that falls
and is gone
into the sea of it.

who hears the sound is the sound.

who is wood hammer
cracking against the mountain?
bird. cracking wood.
ice. cracking heart

we meet.

Self portrait in the studio

And there you are.

troubled eyes
turned away
from the mirror in your hand
A self portrait
/unfinished/
languishing in beauty
blue
as a sea
of deep warm eyes

a model on your bed
bares thighs
so cream
they need no lips
to whisper
lick me
lick me

fractured light swims on an ocean
of breasts
and bottoms
bellies which stretch
and yawn
into the deepest blue

the blue of watching eyes

walking with mermaids feet

I am walking with the feet of a mermaid
aware
in each step
of the slight suffering
of the round crunch
of peebles
under my small boned feet

I carry one
white
and as perfect
as an egg
in my hand
as i climb

Below me
the ocean falls
a web of diamonds
to whom
i sing
the language of the dolphins

Quietly crooning
calling
across the shock of aqua
I wait

They do not come.