This poem is a circle: a forward call a landing pad made from what co uld be called waste. A nest, or bed, wide open – no questions – just sheets sliced back in her pitch of place. Lo ve means finding a way to hold you: through words we whisper ‘round worn worlds; through find- ing frets for fingers, beads to turn, a pinch of texture to grasp on to. Such simple solidity, both rare and maybe just too tough to be seen through. I never wanted to mother. Told myself a home was fragile space. Told myself to never be in one; sense says to fear the thing that breaks. I hear that; but also the mattress creak and voices speak -ing through the night. These memories ripe and slabbed in me. A base line for my heart, the call-in from a past that warns: no comfort without we.
By Ellen O'Brien | 1 February 2019
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