(based on suggestions from @GretasTARDIS, @mindlessmunkey, @skippy_2, @iFigaro2u, @ernmalleyscat and @realnixwilliams)
Morning is dark in silhouette
mug shot of tea, side-on.
Ribbon of red and brown
scoops curved tears
in a length of satin
colour of dropped leaves.
Autumn stews and curls
in a dusty summer cup.
Noise and language
raging voices shout
out yellow and black
90s video clips. Turn it off
I can’t deal with big pants
and rap breaks this early.
Snap it shut and listen:
there’s breathing in.
Hear warmth blister,
dry crusts revolve wet heat
evolve boiling oceans
like salamander’s new feet
find new hot steps.
Brew uncommon worlds
with incredible sadness
new feet in damp sand.
Mouth sharp as a coin
Sucked iron and dried
out last night’s wine.
Sure as maybe: press notes,
sing hot milk fevers
warm cups instead of newborns.
Bare porcelain hands
can cradle space
_________________________________________________
Today’s poem is based on suggestions from six peeps:
- @GretasTARDIS: “dusty cups!” (No prizes for guessing what you're watching, Squeak.)
- @mindlessmunkey: “Evolution”
- @skippy_2: “The incredible sadness of sand.”
- @iFigaro2u: “autumn & clouds”
- @ernmalleyscat: “mug shots”
- @realnixwiliams: “90s music videos”
Written while listening to Fever Dream by Iron & Wine on repeat.
It is strange when your children don’t need your body to survive any more. I never felt my body was so useful as when I was breastfeeding. All that milk and fumbling and sleeplessness seems like a fevered dream. I am awake at 5am, just like when my boy was a tiny mass of misplaced instincts. But he is asleep, and will ask me in his own voice for Weetbix and Vegemite toast (and possibly "cake!") when he wakes up.
Instead of a tiny warm head, I hold my teacup in the morning dark.
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