Rosanne's Lounge

I am not entirely certain
how any of us make it through unscathed,
what with spitting frying pans just out of reach
and the temptation of roundabouts
reversing cars in driveways
epidemics from exotic locales
the drunk driver who slams into the rear of the car
leukemia, accidental smothering, house fires, bush fires
and possibly lack of food since mother is
catatonic in the living room,
paranoid about what might happen
instead of out in the world
let alone here in this moment.

Here’s how I imagined it:
Take one house, preferably custom-built;
add careful wrought-iron fixtures and
a wooden spiral stair, ceiling-high bookshelves,
a garden filled with lavender and wisteria.
Place in a rolling yard backing onto rainforest,
a sandstone path meandering through,
a pond perhaps. Add ducks and koi last.

Reality is better though: take a small apartment,
gently fold in cats, a partner, a child.
Add a pinch of magic, warm snuggles,
as much love as you can handle,
the smell of a baby’s hair, smiles
and the look in your partner’s eyes
when he gazes on you both, tired but happy.

Rest for one hour and then let stew for a few years
until no juices run out when pressed.

In the still night, you, the moon, the water.
Safe in my belly, my little turtle,
Come venture into the light, my daughter

Amidst the chaos, her father caught her,
held her tight, so, tiny, poignant, mortal.
In the still night: you, the moon, the water.

Those first days were fire-filled, never hotter
Clear of sight, my nymph, my little angel,
Come venture into the light, my daughter

Now the days grow long, the nights grow shorter.
You gaze at the stars and do not startle
In the still night. You, the moon, the water,

the wild wind and rain that gives no quarter,
these will last the night and o’ercome this hurdle.
Come venture into the light, my daughter

This is your birthright, your brick, your mortar
Craft spells with me, touch flame to a candle
In the still night. You, the moon, the water:

Come venture into the light, my daughter.

Your hold on the earth
is so much less tenuous now

I have sustained you with my body
amazing thought
your mouth to my breast
eyes locked with mine
filled with trust
tiny hands tracing
ancient angelic sigils
on my skin

your voice has changed
from the frail bird-like cry
of confusion and frank fear
to an outraged surprise
at banged heads, delayed feeds
and the indignity of swaddling

I don’t know why you giggle
when I put my face close to yours
close my eyes and say “boo!”
but like Pavlov’s mutt I return
repeatedly for my reward

And when, finally, you drift off
into sleep, your hands continue
to conduct vast celestial orchestras
calling new planets into being
with the flick of a wrist

I want to be worm food.
Give me a while yet, under the sun,
but then, when it’s time,
lay me down under a gum tree
and let it feed on me.

I want to be worm food.
Let those sightless beasts wriggle
into secret cavities, making me richer,
tastier, more nutritious for the tree,
as its roots delve into my dust.

I want to be worm food.
Part of the cycle, meaningful.
Some part of me will travel up sap,
out to a branch, into a leaf,
and bask in the sun once more,
wordless, blind, but not dead.

I am the world tree
I am the woman, my branches reaching
I am the serpent, entwined
This is a story ancient and common
My roots reach around a globe
I feel all and know all
I am light and desire
And I created the earth
I shed my self and the woman remembers
I stroke the tree bark and it reminds me
Diamond-skin and innocence
The snake slithers my length and it awakens me
Tremors and earth-shudders, gentle and huge
Some tell that she stole from me
Others that I gifted a dreamtime,
Rainbow sparkling. Some that I tempted,
Seductive, knowing, a wickedness in my glint.
All the tales are true.

For B.W.

At home, she tries on voices,
accents echoing around rooms.
She says she can’t hold one down,
that she is sliding towards
a future language, not yet invented.
She spends her days planning
for disasters she hopes won’t happen.
Her life is filled with stockpiles,
logistics, anthrax, children and transport.
She yearns. She wishes for passion.
She listens intently. She knows
the names of every flower she sees
and somehow, that makes a difference.
She is rebuilding her nest and in it
she places feathers for comfort,
red grass for colour, amethyst
for intellect, iron for strength.
There is a right way  to weave
it all together and she straightens
each piece into place. The words
come more easily these days.

For David Hicks, five years in Guantanamo Bay without charge

They torture him,
Because he is Muslim
Because he fought on the wrong side
Because he is different from them
Yet we do nothing.
They create laws with an eerily familiar ring,
Because they cannot see past their ideals
Because their victims no longer seem human
Yet we do nothing.
Just like a generation of Germans before us.
Just like a generation of Rwandans before us.
Why?
Because the sun still shines
Because making love still feels good
Because he just called again and I miss him
Because I argued with my boss
Because that idiot just cut me off
Because the baby was crying
Because the children need their lunch
Because I’ll miss the train if I don’t hurry
Because reading a book is my escape
Because my new laptop will arrive
Because I was writing something down
In case I forgot, in case I remembered,
In case I had to call them back later
Because, too often, I feel lonely too
Because light needs the darkness too
Because it hadn’t to happen to someone
And I didn’t want it to be me
Because I was scared to say anything
Because it’s all too complicated
Because sometimes I feel helpless
Because music makes me want to dance
Because that’s far away and I’m safe
Because it’s easy
Because it’s easy
Because it’s easy

[after an increase in sexual disfigurement of indigenous women was reported in The Age newspaper]

I say no, don’t want that now, and he say, fine,
Then no one gonna have you.
Pours his stuff on me
He been huffin’, they all do,
Drops his durrie and I flame up
Like it’s a movie, ‘cept them fillums
Got no sense, no stink, no heat like this
Pain from navel to thigh
Searing as I claw wordless

When my mother tell me
A good woman got to have fire in her belly
Don’t think she never meant this.
I’s only 18. Now I’m like those women
In Africa got no feeling down there.
And I ain’t the only one.
Makes you scared to stand up
But we got to. We got to.

She’s a delicate rose
Found in flowery prose
And I’m not her.

He reads seductive books
Where those kinds of looks
Are all you need.

I’ve always preferred
My words to be heard.
A different end:

Rapunzel rolls up her sleeves,
Cuts her hair, weaves
Her own ladder. Leaves.