I hit the boy in a daydream. He strolled his motorbike straight out onto the highway where my 50km an hour cruise in flipflops and sun dress was abruptly confused into a squall of bent metal, shredded petals and grating skin. It was a bright morning, the scent of papaya and grass smoke on the wind.
The impact caused two broken ribs, a concussion, knee wounds to the bone, a torn ankle and a wonky side mirror.
It made a tear in the fabric of things that let my dying lover find me, and gave me this poem.
Through the window
wet with rain
we linger together,
– my broken bones and a galaxy in stillness –
you, winged creature,
bespangled with light.
and lends me her eye.
Through the fineprint
silver maps appear,
assembled in fractions,
held still on the brink
of this long moment
across the liquid veil.
I see her fractal universe
spinning with flying cities,
a geometry of rice paddies,
and shaggy clocks, swinging aerial time.
The big-winged banana trees
tear their leaves into feathers.
those cherry bells,
stir tincture of raindrop,
with essence of cloud
for the sunbaths of songbirds tomorrow.
All of this, repeating, repeating…
as the view reaches out
an invisible trapeze
on our exhalation.
and all of this, repeating, repeating…
as the fall of mirrors
rushes in – glittering and spinning
prickling and singing…
On glossy flutes.
The Bali postcard
explodes into splendour,
implodes into silence,
and swells with the beauty
of the excruciatingly untouched.
Bali, tosses her head and anoints her full belly.
In this most raucous of quietude
she pulls a shroud of monsoon wetness
lets wild rain
tease at her nipples, fill her breasts
and coax her flesh into ripples
and eddies, burst edges and rivulets of
She breathes hot
into the chamber of her storm.
She arches her back and presses her curves
into the swelling edge of puddles,
across flooding paddies,
and into cups
an aching fullness
of liquid mirror
flying to earth in explosions of ecstatic math.
Through the dragonfly’s eye
I see them ride their exquisite parachutes
in from Himalayan adventures
all their stories
To write them down the backs of cuddling ducks
to draw them in haikus
upon the tendrils of a passionfruit vine.
The curves of their perfect orbs
as they take upon themselves
the caress of the wind,
the cool cheek of sky,
the frenzied swirl of the spinning palm
and a shrapnel of flight
from their abseiling sisters.
Red leaves, orange berries
A lost bird.
and the tiny things that swoon in their skirts.
All these drawn on their bodies,
tearing mud-bound in crystal,
as battalions of sweet ammunition
fall and explode
and create the world