Rosanne's Lounge

For Brian Widdows, Jaime’s daughter Kaya and Ceredwyn and Keith’s cousin

There is an infinite sadness
in certain acts that cannot be escaped
and tonight I grapple with the trifecta:
A murder, a suicide, the death of a baby
moments before it entered the world

Around me, friends reel, grieve, fume,
plant trees, hug, weep, scream, rock
— I presume. They are far away
and I am alone with infinite aches,
a deep spiraling starscape of unending.

There is no comfort in this cold place.
Only wine, and silence and little waves
of melancholy, that there is such hate
in the world, that there is such despair
in the world, that life can be so random
and steal breath from delicate souls.

Lay roses, lay lilies, lay lavender
at their gravesides. Plant seeds.
Love.

When we were young
we watched incandescent flickering images
of people rising like a sea from train stations,
koyaanisqatsi in the Valhalla cinema
on Glebe Point Road late at night
and we swore we would never become
one of these faceless creatures
on escalators, on crosswalks,
mooching to jobs in dim airless offices.

We were determined to be kecak
singers rocking in jungles,
hippies digging our own vegetables,
late night intellectuals with coffee
and guitars in Seattle cafés forever.

But it is cold and here we are back
in a chilly Sydney morning crossing
from Central to the bus stop at UTS
along with 100 other workers;
the lights change and we move as one
off the kerb.

Speed us up and we will be the same
as those flickering beings
from 30 years ago
because this much doesn’t change,
not here, not that quickly at least.

In the beginning
Love is wordless
It is the touch of skin
Suckling. A cuddle in the dark.

Then love is simple
I love you mama
Means you are my world
And you are comfort and
Healing to me

In teenhood love is mercenary.
I love you ma means
Thanks for letting me
Borrow the car
Or stay out late
Or for buying those shoes
I asked for.

For a while, love is complex.
It is heady and passionate
With the new lover.
Then edged with trust and hope,
Then our own children come and
I love you is amazement and joy
Abundance of love while
I love you mum is now
Deeper and filled with new respect

At some point perhaps
I love you is bitter or painful
A holding on or a working hard
And sometimes a letting go

And I suspect
Right at the end
Holding someone’s hand
Eyes moist
That love is wordless again.

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.