Door of Air: Poems by Morgan Yasbincek

By | 1 February 2022

dark of the dark

dark of the moon in the dark
of year, somebody in a Subiaco
subway chanced it, ended up with water
up to their windows, winds tip houses
up-side-down, send them along water
courses, people wake up sailing
in their beds

my two year-old grandson says he’s
busting, I take him, sit on a stool in front
of him, hand on his waist, he looks at me
sighs, asks about the pipe leading from
hand basin, I explain – water goes down
the plughole, into the downpipe, up over the bend
through the wall, continues along the side of the house
under the paving, then into underground tank near the
rocks where he was playing
we both sit quietly, then he points to the pipe, says
say again, so we both track a slug of water three more times
I’m finished, he says, leaving nothing

when the other perceives me, it’s in reflection
so she’ll collect that scrap of something left
in a dream, tiny short sound vocalised in the
root of throat just as body lifts into first
moment of sleep

she was the only one listening as I gave birth, she
was busy dividing the dawn light
in the mirror opposite, impossible
to tell if I was labouring in or colour grey scale
she ushered in all the visitors, told me
to refuse to make them tea, but I’d lost
too much blood

she walks on the other side of all the aisles
I walk down, has already touched every book I choose, writes
me page after page but they always get waylaid, she
charges the air with patience, counsels my impatience

what did you expect, she asks,
braiding the grass with her toes, I say
I wanted to wind up in a lagoon, things settled, everyone
to get out of their nautical beds, find somewhere
to hang their sheets to dry, expect to finally be able
to translate frantic signing of the trees in the wind, for
somebody’s, anybody’s, wish
to arrive

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