Burn it Down

Adequate puzzle
A tantrum to most
Bursting notions
Supplying connection
Emerging to fury

Young hood place
Nature lacking robust
Gentle bout for
Relevant disposal
Rightly due

Seeking worth
Amongst incompetency
Chasing relevance… “Who’s that?”
Erasing decorum
Seemingly blocked (…ugh)

Yet hardy as we come
Vigour and valour
Lest we reposition
Reshape

Insertion applied
Collectively ready
Primed to daze
Up for leisure
Fit to fight

Posted in 119: FIT | Tagged

Livid

In the grey zone between accidents and non-
accidents are situations that involve carelessness,
poor decision making and neglect

— Anne Smith, “Nonaccidental injury in childhood”



My oldest friend—the newest mother I know—tells me
her baby has a blue spot too. She does not say
“like yours did”. Or even “just like us”. It’s common
among our people. I tried to tell her—take photos,
document it early—but she said it was the midwives
who found it. Beneath coats of cream and red, vernix and blood,
lay a livid bloom, sacral blue-grey: “They knew,”
she said, “what they were looking at.”

let me stress from the outset / one of nature’s oddest whims / THE BIRTHMARK
—in Latin NAEVUS— / an excess of pigment / on any part of the human body


Those early months—motherhood, our locked world—
opened up by routine appointment. All the better to bear
the folding-in—noises rendered colour crying
purple static white. I longed for an institution—
trusted, believed
in the primacy of order: maternal
and child health.

among untutored speakers we find / numerous confusions / on the basis of shape
and colour / mothers and nurses are better informed / yet in some instances /
the semantic shade / ‘wound’ / has been arrived at by a sorely deficient power of
observation


At four months, the nurse asked—
“You see these marks?”
Faint shadows, dappled on baby wrists, shoulders,
ankles, feet. In the afternoon light, they were there
then gone, the silvered ripple of tiny fish
glimpsed from a jetty—
“Here,” she said, “and here?” Insisting,
finger pointed, on closer scrutiny. “Do you know how she got these?”
I tell her about bath time: dusky hands and feet;
a shivering lip, mouth ringed blue—
“But they would go back
to normal,” I said, “once we dressed her.” Under the nurse’s gaze,
these livid marks do not warm to my touch.

it is undeniable and inexplicable that / the mother’s experiences and beliefs / bear
signs / on the bodies of their children / the abused knowledge of / a mother’s fit
of terror / acquires structural significance / and even / stigma / the full wealth
of their ramifications / its special bearing on mothers and infants / manifests itself
in diverse ways


The nurse hands me a folder, EMERGENCY DEPARTMENT

Referral Reasons: unexplained bruises

a cyan shell. Between the lines—

Mongolian blue spots on her sacrum
as noted at 2 weeks of age

in clinical ink-jet and white paper—

Mother and baby had a 5 day stay
for sleep and settling support

the story uncoils

Mother cannot recall any incident
currently taking Zoloft

beneath a plastic veil of blue

in contact with a Psychologist
for support with anxiety and depression




Two tanka for Mongolian blue spots:


the mother’s tears fall—
late blooms, atypical marks
stain her newborn’s skin;
stirring, in the wake of doubt,
sudden snares of scrutiny

questions, suspicions—
her child’s own inheritance—
turned to proof of fault;
the unmet mother ideal
held against her till it sticks



Notes
The epigraph is from Anne Smith’s “Nonaccidental injury in childhood”, Australian Family Physician 40, no. 11 (2011), 858.
The second, fourth and sixth sections are found poems, constructed from Karl Jaber’s “The Birthmark in Folk Belief, Language,
Literature and Fashion,” Romance Philology 10, no. 4 (1957), 307-342.
The seventh section reclaims lines—written about me and my child—from our own Emergency Department referral.

Posted in 119: FIT | Tagged

Cartoon Birds and Stars

I am afraid I have wound up encumbered,
eating spaghetti in my lingerie, like an obese toddler
whose fat rolls, like a Chow Chow’s, spill out of the straps
of the baby seat in her mother’s four-wheel drive.
I visit you in the lobby, a public humiliation ritual
for women with bad taste. You are in a grey hoodie,
haemorrhaging sweat to the sound of indoor water fountains.
Sex with you is like apologetic WWE, with a referee blowing the whistle
each time you ask me if something feels okay. I tell you that I want love
to feel like cartoon birds and stars spinning around our heads.
I will break character in the bathtub, where I will reveal my real face,
crying like a crying machine, as you feed me champagne through a curly straw
like I’m your co-dependent guinea pig. Now, fetch me a towel,
before I grow old in here and die.

Posted in 119: FIT | Tagged

Archive

“consistency, may i remind you, is the hobgoblin of little minds.”
–Sept 5, 1938, letter to Stanley Edgar Hyman from Shirley Jackson



Our lives are chaos reduced to colorful miscellany:
Jazz club ticket stubs, summer camp pamphlets
Hum of copiers and whoosh of airconditioning
Broken by sudden, sad clickwhirrzizzblats of microfilm

I’m finding again between the pages
Misplaced remnants of the mid-century
Love letters unsent, automatic writing experiments,
Last will and testament of a first generation American

Rewinding again, the pink-shirted young man to my left
Intends to find something in fin-de-siècle German newspapers
On my right, a legal scholar reads Robert Jackson’s Nuremberg notes
At the back of the room librarians mumble over this and that

Contents mis-filed, a torn page, a missing photo
All willing the silent dead to speak.

Posted in 119: FIT | Tagged

Burial (after Louise Bourgeois)

There is no mercy in the glitter of cleavers. ‘Totem’, Sylvia Plath

child-dagger

clavicle—self

suspended seed hung liver

bristling of needles of hooks in eyes

i love you, maman

webbed wings pinioned insects

stitched flesh-seams

the room as long as a whole

days ,,, nights

mirror arch replicated re: reple-

-te && incomplete



***

yes, would very much

like to

bury the hatchet

// exactly where I can see it

inside of you //

***
Come, let us entwine

our limbs and our souls

After all, we fed from the same source

release my hand (please do) )not)

***

threads unspooling cut up / tablecloths

scarves / dresses / stockings

skin / limbs / innards

dreams / language / memory

one eye open

other eye sealed forever

***

I HAVE BEEN
TO ______ AND
_______.

AND LET ME
TELL YOU,
IT WAS
______________.

***

I beg of you, mother

catch me

I fall

I fall



Note:

The poem responds to the following artworks by Louise Bourgeois, in approximate order:
Dagger Child (1947-49), Fée couturiere (1963), The Quartered One (1964-1965), Janus fleuri (1968), Eugénie Grandet (2009), I Love You (1987),
The Winged Figure (1948), Umbilical Cord (2003), Arch of Hysteria (1993), Arch of Hysteria (2004), Knife Figure (2002), À l’infini (2008-09),
Couple (2001), The Couple (2002), The Couple (2003), Heart (2004), Untitled (no 7) (1993), The Trauma of Abandonment (2001),
Nature Study (1986), The Good Mother (2003), Untitled (Broom Woman) (1997), The Waiting Hours (2007), The Hidden Past (2004),
Untitled (I Have Been To Hell and Back) (1996), I Redo (1999-2000) and The Woven Child (2002).

In particular, the penultimate section quotes the text from the embroidered artwork of Untitled (I Have Been To Hell and Back) (1996)
but replaces the words ‘HELL’, ‘BACK’ and ‘WONDERFUL’ with blank spaces.

Posted in 119: FIT | Tagged

HINEMOANA WORKS AT THE FISH FACTORY WHILE FALLING IN LOVE WITH DEATH

U process the fish / because it’s better if u do / the nasty work / processing / ur children / than someone else / u sent Hinenuitepō a voice message / before clocking in / u don’t know why / it just gives u some comfort / to reach out / to ur new / friend / u slice through the neck / whenever / others aren’t looking / u press ur nose to the scales / and breathe in some of the pain / of the poor beasts / the factory think they have clean catch / without u / they would know the truth / u feel whatever foulness go in / and stay in / u process the fish / because it’s better if u do 
/////
Rather than walk / TePō wants to grab their car / the aging furnace of a thing / ol death on wheels / as they like to call it / parked in a 1h zone / u go with / cos of course / u do / when u get to th / gathering / where ur old love / sits at the end of the table / throne like / voice as sharp as the lightning / the droppings of ghosts / decorate the table / it was always all about them / there is a little shrugging / regret / pulsing at ur throat / u both take up the remaining seats / unfortunately not next / to each other / both seeking glances / while others initiate conversation / start things that have no end / Te Pō is in lace tonight / and u wonder if they / understand the stolen glances u take / u wonder / if the glances they steal from u / r stolen for the same / reasons  
/////
U can feel / the waves out there spray into nothing / as u r sitting in the car / the Night is leaning on ur shoulder / it’s too cold / out there / where the others are eating KFC & smoking blunts / ur in here / warmed by ur friend / they’re just a friend / ur fingers are touching / and neither of u move them away / there is a stirring so uncomfortable / between ur legs / u stare at the spot on the windscreen / where the world smudges / neither of u move their fingers away
/////
U lie on ur mattress in ur shitty / squat / hand down ur pants / did u want to fuck them / tonight / it was / so nice to touch them / it was so good / u watch the mould on the ceiling metastasize/ while u bring urself closer and closer to that feeling / ur / so / close / now / and whatever shit uve been holding / in / coughs out all over ur face and neck / it’s black / it’s oil slick / fuck man / what the fuck man / u feel it foam and slug along ur cheeks / u twist ur body to the side / it feels like there is a whole forest of melted / down / crude / o’ing your mouth / and everywhere hurts / until it is done / and it is not done soon / the phrase not again / please / not again / rises to the surface with each heave
/////
It continues through / the night
/////
After moving some shit / u go to wendys after / though neither of u are in a talking mood / shit has felt awkward since the date / ur sick now / and u didn’t want to bring that sickness into their life / did u
/////
When u finally do say the words / u r quiet about it / the murmuration of tides so low no human can hear it / I think i’ve fallen in love with u / the car motor is humming / the sound of something stuck in the throat / a throat that is disappointingly clearable / like a chunk of food / like forests / they are tapping fingers on the dash / they pretend not to hear u / it’s for the best probably / if they don’t hear / then u can stay friends and nothing will change / nothing
/////
U r playing it cool / down by the pools / watching everything / u have ever loved / drift in and out of the world / every time u make a confession / like this u have to come back to the / tides / they remind u / that th whole world slips / back and forth / constantly / absently / u pick at the cuticles / and feel something of ur sickness / shadow / ur thoughts / it’s best not
/////
The conveyor churns / the parts of fish / the slip of scale / u could live in / each one of their vacant eyes / u could swim for miles in that pitted black / stretching out / ur not body / oh u have longed to be a not body / again / after so long / u can feel urself and all creatures / rushing and pausing / and tensing / and pulsing / a coworker finds u / choking on ur own vomit / spasming on the concrete the floor  
/////
This shit / sucks / can’t even go / to work without / this / just ripping thru u / ur memory sucked shit but u could have sworn it wasn’t this bad last time / u ended up at the hospital for two nights / but they didn’t know what to do to help u / it was something they hadn’t seen before / and u / more or less recovered / had to give the space to someone else / u don’t know what is happening / u keep throwing up / this / shit / u don’t know what is happening / u thought this had been / left behind / at loss for what to do / u come to the river / many others have come here before / th taniwha have been hungry / for so long / ravenous / since th invasion / they will eat whoever / and that is a problem / u are here to talk to / the oldest waters / u sit by th river humming / a song u know they will remember / u hold a rock in ur hand / and see the path it has taken / a pang / u wait until the sun sinks and for them to rise / as predictable as ur own tides / u go to Wainuiātea / ur mother / ur creator / they smile when they see u / what is happening to me / Wainuiātea lifts their shirt / and turns to reveal their back and / a large dark growth / crouched on one side of their spine / like a misplaced geode / the skin around it red and whining / yellow smiles leaking from its edges / I have contained it in myself / but there isn’t much I can do / u feel this new reality sink into u / it’s how they treat us / so it shows up / on our bodies
///
Sometimes life / is a bit much / tuna caught in a net / writhing bodies / with no space between them / bodies lined up to be cut into / pieces u can glad wrap and sell / to whoever wishes to consume u / and can afford it / sometimes Death is the one u want / and cannot afford
Posted in 119: FIT | Tagged

BLOOD LEGACY // HUNGRY PEOPLE DON’T STAY HUNGRY FOR LONG

here is the turn. one line follows the other. one line and then another. you. call it a prose poem, you.
this is not a prose poem, you. it.

looks about you. look about you. this. is no story. there is no story.

there is only. this. it. stands before a mirror. blood floods out the nose. this is not a. i am the mirror, i
am the mirror, i am am am.

there is a story. old man of the river. they are dying. in a hut, in a marketstall, a supermarket.
apples underneath the apple tree. beautiful apples. sparkling and preserved. ruby
apples. i. this is not a. the man sells ruby apples, call him plain-clothes bobby.
not all cops. not all bad apples. not all. he
sells apples underneath the apple tree.
the tree is rooted in
blood. not all trees
are rooted in
blood.

from whence we are born/e.

the man sells apples from the apple tree. the tree is empire. i am
am am. i am

sympathetically stimulated. dilated. strung-out. each day bleeds into the next. one line follows. it
stands before a mirror. i am not a. i am not a.

it reads fairy tales. tall reeds dance o’er the riverbed. fairytales / lies. fairytales lie scattered all across the
bathroom tile. once upon a time there was an old man who lived in a hut down by the riverbed.
he was a very old man, and he had lived in the hut for a very very long time.

story skeleton:

  • one day the old man hears
  • the apple tree weeping
  • sobbing
  • the tree begins to
  • bloom
  • white blossoms
  • ruby apples
  • the man does not eat the apples, but
  • the people eat the apples, the people are happy people
  • the people are very hungry people, we are the last men
  • the tree cracks
  • deny. defend. depose.


it lies upon its sickbed. my sweet friends they come and go // but the people they don’t know. and Caius is indeed mortal and it’s right that he should die, but for me Vanya, Ivan Ilyich, with all my feelings and thoughts – for me. beside him lies a hessian bag. think: i could fit inside that hessian bag (overflowing applecores). littered all across the floor, chewed down cyanide. bloodreaping. bloating. his lips are cracked and weeping. legs oedematous and purple-red, cool to touch. lies on his back. like a cockroach on his back.



i/she has eaten the apple, now
here is the turn.

Posted in 119: FIT | Tagged

The meeting horse

Long days shut up behind your screens
are high noon for the meeting horse
to be everywhere, yet nowhere with a camera.
That indistinct noise that cuts across the speaker,
that burst of feedback that seems to bounce
across the faces in boxes? The meeting horse
is on its way. It does not matter that you
cannot ride a beast of burden, nor that your
makeshift study is indoors, nor that you
never quite explain what the purpose of the
meeting horse should be. The meeting horse is
coming. You send a message to the meeting
chat that you’ve been called away a moment.
The meeting horse is here.

Your husband says: please don’t talk about
this in public. You say, that is not an attitude
that gets a visit from the meeting horse and
anyway, you don’t know my meetings. Your children
say, don’t you mostly run your meetings? You say,
the meeting horse is a good way to end my meetings.
You don’t tell your mother about the meeting horse
since she was a few streets down from the real
horse from which you fell in 1984. It was winter
and the Ōtautau mud came up around you in a
bowl of three dimensions. You were bruised but
not badly injured, a condition which persists
today. You look at the faces gridbound on
the screen, hear the voices that at all pitches

sound like reeds. High noon, oh horse, high noon.

Posted in 119: FIT | Tagged

Slipstitch

The changeroom at Palm Beach ocean pool
has no warm showers. It takes two hot water bottles
to pink my feet after ten laps of freestyle.
Beyond the pool wall, a pied cormorant dives for fish.

Casting on, I loop blue yarn around a knitting needle
then tie a knot. Slide the right needle through the loop
on the left needle, wind the yarn around again.
Slip the new stitch onto the right needle. Repeat, repeat.

I am not athletic but I dive from the ledge of the pool,
whipstitch my way through the swell until I reach Black Rock.
It’s best to wear a wetsuit, ocean flippers and a neoprene cap.
Hot water bottles keep warm longer if you knit them jackets.

There’s a ferry to Ettalong. It takes you past Mackerel Beach
through Broken Bay, skirts the green wildness of Lion Island.
The windiest month is August but even in July squalls buffet
the boat, purl white caps across the drowned valley.

My mother’s friend Joan has glimpses of Pittwater
glittering through her kitchen window. We drink tea
from a pot in a striped cosy. I tell her about Mum.
Joan writes to her on notepaper embossed with shells.

The furthest I ever swam was 100 laps in an Olympic pool.
My mind looped memories, knitted difficult thoughts
into a shapeless garment. Two hot showers to stop
my legs shaking. Fingers as wrinkled as ribbed sand.

Once I tried to knit a V-neck into a round neck jumper.
It puckered and gaped with holes like mouths
of hungry fish. But stitches can be undone and remade.
Needles click and count the rhythm of repair.

This morning, the pied cormorant returned in flight,
looping and diving to spear the ocean. Repeat, repeat.
A lull drops the bird like a slipped stitch into the waves.
It rises, silver shimmering in its beak.

Posted in 119: FIT | Tagged

maybe the sex party wasn’t for me or maybe it was just the timing

maybe we imagined each kiss a butterfly stomach or a mostly nude dragon tangled in leather breathing us a fiery sky so we could be some sort of room for gender fuckery for sensuality for getting to know one another i’m glad we went i want you to know you better it’s just that maybe that day wasn’t the best day for it
         that day i made us breakfast in bed i swam thirty laps i felt butch as fuck i purchased a print of leslie feinberg
         that day i wrote a cliché love poem about an orange sunset and your hip mobility and how the moon smiles down on you
         that day i turned our sex poetic taught the ocean to flirt so deeply all shades of neon grew lustful as us alone a room fully clothed and looking at one another some sort of eye fuckery is this #QUEERLUV? taglined on whatever this was to be grazed at by our community just before the talking mouths decided on #BREAKUPSEASON as i said that day wasn’t the best day for it
         that day i became the story of the eucalypt shaped like a heart how it skinned itself pink until it was once again too afraid to step on something sharp

Posted in 119: FIT | Tagged

Everything will be fine and also nothing matters and also stand up to injustices and also take care of yourself and also sit down and shut up!

Fit fine finesse fundamental
A syllable governmental
Caring wish fluff crevice
Behind unseen glass
Mistakes, misogyny
Pimple shade mahogany
Stain, stain again

Circuit orchard in full bloom,
gloss of chrome pollen, metallic sap.
Clouds spool algorithms of breath;
their rainfall smells of disinfectant and sleep.

Glass teeth bite through the current,
words turn coral in the socket,
each clause calcifying under pressure.
Plastic saints kneel in a shopping cart,
their halos made of receipts.

Cap for porcupine
Monkey mind
Fluctuate just about
On the cusp

Dreams queue for security clearance.
Time is rewritten in the shape of a muscle,
flexed once, forever.
Fit is a frequency,
a hiss beneath the nation’s jaw.

Beneath it: ants marching data,
an orchard of wrong tongues grafted together,
the fruit leaking colour too soon.
Inside every syllable, a mirror riot.
Inside every metric, a trembling seed
that won’t germinate, won’t die.

And still, the planet rotates,
an exhausted centrifuge of wants.
Satellites blink, counting our breaths for sport.
The sea rehearses its collapse,
but keeps feeding the shore.

You and I hum with nervous syntax,
sweating under aurora light.
Noodles getting cold,
and I am getting old at the same time.
Miracles made of stardust and MSG
can only be performed at the right temperature.

Between the lines
Then set
To serve
Palate fresh
Dead baby discount code

Posted in 119: FIT | Tagged

Overhang

What happens to the heavy overhang?
The ache that will not house itself and tips
into the guiltless day? The parrots, white
and muscular, can’t grip it as they swoop.
They cannot carry it away. We talked,
and talk is structure, yes? A build that bears
a life? Our life? But, no, the mood, the wretched
mood escapes the feeble frame of speech.
I reach the edge of the escarpment now.
Great resting, ragged rocks protrude, replete
with form. Up close the clay is like stacked sheets;
earth books with pages immanent, divine.
The parts of us that have no place are loaned
a dwelling here, all held and hanging on.

Posted in 119: FIT | Tagged

Graduation Pose

I am in the foreground, plonked left-front, because
I’m short and had it not been for that saving grace, for my
Lilliputian bones, my squattish head, I’d be much more
forgettable. The girls make two rows, I bask
in the brightness cast by their expressions, their rightly
entitled sense of expectation. I think of the old country,
its reconstruction through myths and tales,
a Wal Amba root cracks through the floor, coils ‘round
my ankle, drags me back to a land disfigured

by colonial canings, to the clank of rupees secreted
in my grandmother’s tea-chest, a high commission
and my best patent leather shoes, the peeling away
of second-skin humidity in exchange for an un-shrugable
roll-neck cold. I smile partially. Behind me, a fair Willow
beams, past unruffled, a thousand possibilities gathered
‘round her like the colours of spring stitched into her
blouse; I grasp for the threads that drag behind
graduation’s gown, take up a needle sew myself in.

Posted in 119: FIT | Tagged

Hydrogen Bloom

your skin is host
to a thousand vomiting mouths
you are sitting up straight
you are
s
h
a
k
i
n
g
sweating lightly
tiny muscles
pop
shudder up
and die of their urging

One of my austere heroes
told me this shuddering
is a Hydrogen Bloom.
consider it a reward
for it is after days of shaking
that we sit in brown armchairs
and watch home the clouds.

it is our quiet work

Walking down our busy Barry Street
regarding it sweetly
thinking only of the cosmic cowboys in our hearts
we send green beams of prayer into strangers’ chests
we send brilliant texts to cordelia crosbie;

life is this constant thing of thinking it will be like this
but then it actually being like that

i hope she will reply, bro, you shot through to the in-itself




but she just replies a simple

i like this

and i think, yes

me too

i like this






middle place




where the floor




never

stops




falling





away

Posted in 119: FIT | Tagged

The Saree Blouse Speaks

Sometimes I chafe, dig my hook-and-eyes
into the breastbone, just to feel my wearer
take pause, tilt her head, as if hearing a lament.
Yesterday, I saw an Indian actress on live tv: her thigh
-high hemline, the slap—why does he think it
his right? I think of our temple-carved goddesses,
their bare breasts in high-relief—worshipped.
My name—half Hindi, half English—is a myth.
I am a skin that swallows another skin, a garment
that buries the heart by design. You might
think me homegrown, but in my early days
I looked Victorian—ruffled and collared,
concealing the neck as if it were a flaw—O!
the reasons for mimicry, cut on the bias and
whipstitched. Sure, these days I flaunt midriffs, plunge
at the chest. Still, I fasten firm. My existence a gaze
rooted like bindweed across open fields.


Note: Written in response to reading the online BBC article ‘Dressing the Indian woman through history’, published 6 December 2014

Posted in 119: FIT | Tagged

territory

rain me three minutes i will blow up this grief.
hong kong breathing down the nape of my neck.
how silly kneeling at the foot of your airspace.
t10 come home howling with a familiar shape.
tomorrow i will shut down the mark six.
i’ve had it with your charity ball-going gentry.
if you build one more mtr mall i will ugly cry.
communal screaming at this sorry-ass library.
philanthropic election-making hand.
colony are you trying to be absolute?
i will starve in your absence.
your concrete clouds and your humid money,
your grey breathing museum.
seen it once you’ve seen it all,
no space for vegetables i am eating you alive.
silence your archives i remember.
rule of law i remember.
whatever rebellion. whichever neon wet market.
rise to bless the currency of sins
& the municipal will inherit the earth.

Posted in 119: FIT | Tagged

if i am lain upon such hostile architecture

look at us
how we tea
party with blame
we are galloping
pleura of pine
casting prayers for fire
trucks and horizon this
burning is lasting don’t
anticipate we will these
are sirens collapsed my
bray glued within amber
surrendering for hornets and sugarcane
but we are saddled beside trees ancient
sap becomes our haunting to become
a tree you must make things
right but i was never forgiven
for the root decay i salvaged
my last departure beneath this
moment is a pulse we
forgive our philosopher

run afar

return not

closed mouth

you dare say

if this too is our battle
prepare to lose x-ray vision

so we fled
valley of ash
blood of sunrise

we find shelter

you enter
the cockroach threshold
declare every door
has a conscience violent
is the slam closing behind
us i think for a moment

we are safe i breathe air open my slumbered

mind awaken from the equus
of night racing blink away
tumour planned skies who will
father our offspring milk bottle
of cumulus circles our
filth biblical thunder
begins a clap a cough
of pearls distributed by
nonethical rain sends light
beams to shock the chains
of our muzzles we felt
the slamming of
the door but we did
not think of its i n g r e s s

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Posted in 119: FIT | Tagged

sonnet for belonging

after Sam Rush


this chest this chest this chest this chest this chest
this chest this chest this chest this chest this chest
this chest this chest these breasts this chest this chest
this chest this chest distressed this chest this chest
this chest this chest this breath this chest this chest
this chest these breasts bereft this breath this chest
this chest distressed depressed deep breath this chest
this chest this chest this chest this chest these breasts
female inhale you fail voice quail exhale
cis-het reflex twist chest this chest distressed
my chest deep breath reclaim these breasts my chest
queer chest fear chest near chest dear chest queer chest
dearest deep breath this chest queer breasts unclench
my breasts queer breasts dear breasts deep breath my chest
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Resume

Part I: About Me

I am unemployed

I have 200 Pokemon cards
and an anxiety disorder
that I’ll hide until
my probation has ended

There is a collection
of bees that live
in my car park
and they scare me
every morning

My 2011 tattoo of Steve Jobs
was my greatest mistake

I like chasing
my dogs in the woods

Part II: Work Experience

Table setter
2000 – 2012
Coleen Burrows
aka my Mum

The worst barista
2013 – 2013
The Sea Cliff Cafe

Tantrum craddler
1994 – 2025
Me Industries
aka whenever I’m
self-employed

Part III: Skills

Sometimes when
I chase my dogs
through the woods
I can almost make
my mind go blank

I am no longer thinking
about breakfast or
rent or purchasing spoons

My wet feet splosh in the
mud and my two staffies
run and my pink brain
sloshes around in its fluid

I’d be dazzled by
the greenery
if I was looking at
the greenery

It’s a skill I can only
do while I’m sprinting

Part IV: Hobbies

I can quote all of the Titanic

Part V: References

Max Gregory

The boss that I slighted
when I refused to work
unpaid overtime
the day he got a divorce

max@theseacliffcafe.com

Gore Cove Reserve

The ferns and the pine
trees and the ivy
that I run past
and through and into
as I ferociously
try to tune out the panic

+61 457 amongst the woods

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Journey

If only I was with you
on the way
to the mountain
to find a rowan tree

with its ripe
red berries
standing on its own
near the stream.

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2 Kilometer Confession in Manila Baywalk

I am not from Manila. I could not navigate the streets like you draw them on the back of a receipt while we wait for the microwavable sisig in 7-Eleven. I pin my location and pin the destination. Sometimes, I yield to the illusion of a one-way route, of something that can be determined and predicted. The city is kind in the afternoons; this baywalk stretches into a sight. On the sides, people were watching the sun set. From this position, the artificial white sand is a spread, but from a high-rise view, it’s just a portion of what we thought. In Tacloban City, I rode a jeep and a van with just a few Binisaya words in hand. “Gamay,” I lied when they asked me if I could speak or understand Binisaya. Then they proceeded to talk to me in Filipino. In Ilocos, I spoke Ilokano and they responded to me in Filipino. There were other words you taught me, yet I am scared to say them to strangers. While walking, I slip into my typical Ilokano “ngarud,” and you ask me what it means. Before even explaining, I said “sorry” for speaking a language you don’t understand. I could not explain. “An expression,” I slide with a smile. You proceeded to say that your maternal grandmother is Ilokano; I said that my maternal great-grandfather is Bisaya. Perhaps, this is how we stretch and find common ground. This is how our tongues splinter into difference yet branch out for a trail. This is how we confess to each other. My problem is that this city takes so much and gives so little to me. I want to see you, without language, and understand your impulses and frailties. Bite your lips. Coil your pinky to mine. Trace me with your lingering eyes. Own me and all these things that are lost in tongues, and make me feel that I belong, for once, without explanation, without the need to translate.
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An Imperfect Lawn

It is late afternoon: an inclined shed against your fence,
bay window opening to an immaculate lawn,
the lampshade in your kitchen beside a lonely pantry.
We take a walk in the shadow of an Atlantic storm;
you face elsewhere: to the improbable, the clock,
always turning to a seesaw, the park bench an anathema:

it’s for old cinders, you say, and drunks (or the assimilated –
as if all difference can be sieved out, unless, of course,
it’s put through acid or diluted on an ingredients label.)
In shadow, it’s about indifference, the unreluctant quiet;
not the way a yellow leaf falls upon another leaf.
We carry on through the first drops of rain,

and, instead of naming, I persevere; and before long, resolute,
I see the lawn imperfect, the shed restored, a swallow
sweep into the disappearing sky.

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Because I’m in the business of making images,

  1. I’ve been taking these 15-second videos of things and places where a picture would normally suffice. In one example, I’m on the roof of a museum in Kanazawa, where an artist collective has installed a screen: blackbirds drift by, in both the film and the sky. But I can’t leave out the two people standing before me, taking it all in, as though on my behalf. Their enthralment is as good as mine.
  2. In the business of making images we published a chapbook of poetry by a 27-year-old author who died a month prior. I cried at the conference call, about a minute after my boss had broken the news over my softening brain, and then cried, multiple times, at the bookstore that hosted the launch.
  3. I’m crying? In a bookstore? A facsimile of another bookstore that died, by the way. I shan’t explain it here.
  4. I say “business” cos, at the award ceremony, my mother told the president of our nation that she hopes my work will continue to have “economic value” (everyone laughed), and also cos, at the end of said interaction, the president’s wife pondered on the connection between my profession and my partner’s (he’s in radiology) and I responded: “We both deal with images.”
  5. I was so witty!! I claim it!!!
  6. Also: there are the images we make in our minds and the images we make with our machines, and it’s taking everything I’ve got to remember that there’s people that are dying, Kim.
  7. Another example of a 15-second video: one I took yesterday, when I found myself by the promenade of the Rochor Canal, when I realised it was easier to walk to the office than take the train from where I was window-shopping. The world appeared to reward me for my decision: I loved the image it made on the surface of the water, the tops of the trees and the yellow-blue troposphere shimmering in bands; everything looked quiet, but also on fire. There were some cars moving imperceptibly, over a faraway road built over the canal, when a crow flew by! right in front of my camera! One blackbird / after another.
  8. So we were determined to publish two chapbooks, one by Adeline, and one by nor. In the business of making images, the chapbooks were anti-profit endeavours, at least according to our costing sheets, which meant that we had to strategise: our chapbooks had to be conceptual and clear, quick to grasp and enticing to our customers; they had to be pretty, and released in time for the holidays, so that they could be LESS SING LIT and more OBJET D’ART. We had PLANS. To quote my colleague on the aforementioned conference call: “I just spoke to her a week ago.”
  9. Two weeks after she died, at a dinner party over Diwali: “I feel almost bad saying this, Daryl, but when I first heard about her death, I thought: her book’s gonna sell.”
  10. Instagram reviews of our chapbooks are quick to emerge: Cherry loves Adeline; @radha_reads loves nor. When nor, the chapbook author that’s gratefully still alive, tags me on an Instagram post about how wonderful it is to launch two books in a calendar year, I comment <3 <3 because I have no words, and because I first learnt virtual communication via MSN Messenger. And let me inform you, dear readers / you heard it here first: the foremost image-makers of my generation are using 🫀 in place of ❤️.
  11. How fucked is it that I, a writer of prose, still gets to write this still-ongoing poem? All while Adeline’s dead.
  12. In a 15-second video that I love, one of the first I ever started taking on my phone: dark, all dark, aside for the shining bulb of a streetlamp; a light rain’s a-fallin’, snow-like beneath the lamplight. But music’s leaking out from my headphones, for which I was once chided for in the library, but really, whatever, cos now this tableau has a score. And it’s Rhianna! And she’s asking the world, ad nauseam, oh what it’s willing to do, oh oh.
  13. In another 15-second video that I took recently: I’m in Karuizawa, by the side of a narrow road in the late-November dark, and the cars keep whizzing by in passing phwoars; amidst the barren trees, a road sign declares: 6日間で / 3件の / 死亡事故. Daryl! Daryl: there’s people that are dying, Daryl, and there are people that are going to die.
  14. An evening stained
    by the staying of an afternoon.
    It had rained
    or perhaps, it was about to rain

    judging from the swell
    of this canal.
    There was a blackbird on a bin
    and I winked 🫀

Blackbird flying over cityscape
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Pink well

I work to care for myself, I put my pillows in the sun to air
& daylight dead skin, I escort spiders outside in a jar
I shell out a little trauma

In a floating room I sit in a blue armchair to voice things I wish not name
that night my dreams make it mincemeat in a wound, a fistula in a cow’s side
blue cheese forgotten in an eroded cavity in my thigh

Shame cut a neat hole an acid drop through my palm
a seared pink well, I allow salt water to pass
to fill to empty

I work to make my body safe
mid-morning sun is good for bipolar depression
I cop the sun, face skyward, eyes closed
until my mind’s painted white

I’m a garden, a breathing mess
a good gardener makes notes
tend observe report

I am fruit trees
I bear figs settled jammy implosions

I am basil leaves
curved green shoes

I am lavender
frilly question mark petals

My leaves are soft, if not to touch
then to look upon
My leaves speak the wind’s chaos
sand poured over my shin

I have roots
white sinews whisper to microbes
sprawling a whale’s skeleton
there is a silent magic down there
in the loam, in the dark

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