Flamenco

Flamenco

Long fin­gers and silver rings; that rhythm; that flight Of fore­finger down a string; that tap of the fin­ger­tips Against the golpeador — one of your legs is crossed over The other and it all dis­ap­pears but for the music. That slight frown on your brow...
Memento mori

Memento mori

His mother painted it, in another life. It is small — less than half a metre across, not quite square. At first glance, it’s nothing but greys, as if it could be Some 19th cen­tury indus­trial city­scape or Soviet town, But closer in, you see...
If voting fails, break glass

If voting fails, break glass

It goes without saying that spells of this kind gen­er­ally require a kitten; At least one, more if there’s a storm brewing — the weather Is a fickle assistant. As to breed, well — the more docile spe­ci­mens Tend to dis­rupt pro­ceed­ings less....
A box of old photos

A box of old photos

In storage, one card­board box filled with pho­to­graphs. I know one grey envelope con­tains: Peppy, full name Pep­per­mint, Aged 2 or so, inspecting one minus­cule ball of black kitten fluff, Two weeks old, soon to be Nemesis, by name if not by nature. In...

Through the looking glass

A poem about me in which nothing is true She’s humble; speaks little. Mousy they call her, when they notice her. She’s hap­piest on her own. Never thinks twice, quite con­tent. Quick to praise and no regrets. She tends her garden, dili­gent, and Basks in the...

Peggy

She’s prac­ticed at it. You can tell: expensive dress, eye­shadow just so. The way she dips her eyes and glances over your shoulder, as if There’s some­thing she’s idly won­dering but of course, it’s a ruse. She’s scan­ning escape routes and plan­ning...

Every heart a doorway

Thresholds have never been what you’d call safe And over the years, the rituals have gotten silly (after all, the phrase ‘swept off her feet’ only make sense Where a cer­tain kind of force is called a ‘bridal carry’). And love (well, trust) creaks open...
The ravine

The ravine

Step off. Or not. It’s one of those decisions that hovers at your peri­pheral vision — are you ready? Wings unfurled at your back, that sen­sa­tion of almost-moistness lingering — will they hold? There’s a time limit… go too early and you plummet to the bottom of...

And you are listening

It is 10.40pm in Paris and they have taken host­ages at the Bataclan It is 11pm and some­where on Face­book a kid posts: “they are killing every­body. one by one.” It is 4pm in Mel­bourne and my friend is giving birth to a little boy named Clancy but...

When I was 12

i ran away and for one wild secret day any­thing was pos­sible i huddled in the recessed entry to the Com­mon­wealth Bank in Garema Place and watched a pro­ces­sion of police who (i was pretty sure) were looking for me i guarded my pre­cious solitude...