Poem #12 (3 of spades) was released on a table indoors at Tsubu bar at Melbourne Uni, provider of nomulent Japanese food and pourer of beers.
I lay down on the couch after lunch
because I could not do anything else.
80s fiction feminist pastel cushions
slid hours askew under my shoulders.
I tightened my eyes and the belt around
my chest, recognised a fake chill in
my lungs. There is a name for this fierce
clench of jaw and paused body.
You wanted lunch. I fell into the
enormity of kitchen: stretching
fridge hinges cutlery drawers jangling
veins against arteries against
too many tomatoes. I was still on the couch.
Your forehead on mine, without words.
Eyes pink, teeth blue, lips white – no.
Hand palm out: a stop
sign on my cheek.
You looked at me like a kite, so far up.
Your string-taut fingers on my face, awake.
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