By | 1 July 1999

Having decided to change her life,
she slashes
welts of green
over her eyebrows.
She arrives at her house
to find the writers’ group of five
bent like fingers
over each other’s pages, laid out
on the lounge room coffee table.
There is her body
sitting with them
leaning into their words–
they don’t notice
her disembodied animation
in the doorway.
One tells her
she has asked a few new members
and points to the other side
of the room.
It has ballooned
into a public hall,
filled with duplications
of her dining table, surrounded
by bent backs,
cardiganed, striped, seamless,
with faceless heads and voices
reading from their writings,
louder and louder to overtake
each other. She decides not
to worry about her eyebrows,
and rushes from table to table,
saying: that image rises from the page,
saying: here, your character is coming to life—
do you see,
do you see?
She leaves her body’s imprint
at each table and stands
in the airy empty space
between the two half-rooms.
They are asking her questions
but have no time
for an answer. No-one
has noticed her eyebrows.

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