movement i
teen bodies on warm bitumen

legs in shorts in the sun drenched quad

she was my wild one, my brightly burning cloud
together driving fast through pine plantations

creeping into the burnt out observatory

gazing through the glassless dome at the stars

a universe that can’t look any closer

burning through our eyes
testing ourselves

against a shifting measure of

something I can’t even guess at
the summer we turned seventeen

heat bent our bike spokes

so we stripped down to swim in the lake weed

that bent around each limb
the summer we turned seventeen

we cut down feral pines

ran a Christmas tree racket out of the church car park

until they caught us out

chased us away running

lake weed streaming from our skin
Natalie Wilson and I

growing up rollies

on the edge of a stormwater drain

underage gigs

pop-punk clothing

black t-shirts, ripped jeans
and late one night

a needle, an ink pot

slight resistance and a stick-poke tattoo

three lines hinting the shape of a triangle
she never said what it meant

just that it reminded her of things


movement ii
news headline

                              Man found dead had multiple stab wounds
when I saw his photo

my pulse moved to my ears

I knew him without reading his name

they chose a shot from high school
light skin and freckles

thin red hairs
I remember him leaning

over the desk with blunt scissors

scraping back curls of wood

his fists in the mosh pit

black t-shirts, ripped jeans

he was everybody’s last man standing
it’s been a decade

I can’t remember if we said ‘hi’ in all that time
it was evening before I heard

how many times he was stabbed

there’s something visceral about that number, seventeen


movement iii
after the first reports there’s silence

no answers instead

months of waiting, wondering
then Natalie Wilson is arrested
the shock is hard and fast in my chest

my wild one, my brightly burning cloud

the burnt kitchen knife under her house

at first it’s no and then it’s yes
my head goes around and around with it

she’s accused

                              I think she did it

I have no evidence

                              she hasn’t been convicted
            she’s accused

they found the knife

                                                            it couldn’t be her

            they’re holding her

                      she’s going to trial
my memories of her body are

all teenage freshness

all strong tanned legs

lipsmackers

swimming carnivals

impulse deodorant

there’s something visceral about that number, seventeen
I wake into 2am confusion

night images visit me
          her body, warm muscles

          my memories curled up against her

          sleepovers and movie marathons

          whispered conversations
          her body empathetic to mine

          gasping pleasure

          lips to cheekbone slip

          hands to back bone pressed

          hard like winter air
          her body with that knife in her hand

          four arms, limbs pushed together

          the smacking of meat

          seventeen times through the chest
                    and    I’m    fucking    appalled


epilogue: modern ritual
after she’s convicted I don’t visit her

time will not set her free
I run scenarios through my head

late at night like psalms
on Tuesdays I want her punished

embalmed and un-forgiven
by Wednesday all I know is her humanity

I perform sacrament in my mind at these times
I take her body

lay it down upon the kitchen table
wash her arms with warm water

a steaming wet towel
wash her legs, her feet

rub between her toes
brush out her hair

place a silk scarf over her eye sockets
I whisper to her that I trust her

I whisper that I will never forgive her
I lay her humanity down

stark against the kitchen tiles