Beneath The Sheet

Standing at the bedside
(his hand in hers)
they eye the crumpled form
beneath the sheet
warily,
as if it might
draw breath
again.
He looks up
and she looks down –
there is a question
in his too-young eyes.
We All Have Cancer
she says.
He nods.
It must be true.
Beneath the sheet
lies the proof.

For My Brother

Can you remember those mornings?
Surfacing from blankets
puddled into the middle of the sagging old beds,
small feet finding the chilly floor,
still varnished with last night's autumn chill.
We'd tiptoe through the house
(grumbling to itself
about the possums in the roof)
wearing our quiet faces.
At their door we'd halt:
eyes wide,
fingers at scrunched up lips,
and then advance,
wincing
at the door handle's squeak.
Child soldiers
on early morning patrol,
we'd reach their bed,
a vast expanse of
rumpled sheets and
sprawled limbs.
In a sudden rush we'd clamber aboard
to be pulled sleepily into their arms.
The sun painted the nearby sea,
the rosellas sang for the morning, and
our ship sailed towards dawn.

Dammed

A little blue ash tray.
A white table cloth.
A plastic chair.
A man.

Pen in one hand,
paper before him,

and a waterfall in his head.

Nicotine holes
in the table cloth and
his flooded mind.

Yes,
he built his own dams -
though at the time, he didn't know
what he was doing.

Three Things to be Said

Dedicated to Hannah

Thankyou

for scrambling through the dark,
understanding stars, and
the walls that mountains
build around us.
And when
the monster’s head is revealed
in the cool early,
for seeing him straight.
Not flinching.

Take care:

of a wishing well face and
still-water eyes;

of skin too thin
for the creeping world;

of the blood buzzing
inside your flesh.


Farewell

feels like sneaking back
into consciousness,
our tense biology
locked in the desperation of goodbye.
And we roll on,
we thunder on,
to find more small landmarks,
and make new memories.

Us and Him

- He looks happy -
she says,
and I don’t dare question
such a statement of
Faith.

She believes enough
to leave behind
her worried state of mind,
the state of mind that
binds her eyes to his face.
And, if
in that face she finds
the signs of happiness,
I’ll leave her Faith be.

For me
that face
is the edge.
The edge of it all.
It’s all edges: crinkled skin and
the edge of him.
And he looks happy
- maybe he looks happy.

Perhaps.

His happiness is all that we have left
to hold us together,
at his side,
outside
all the bits and pieces of him
that we aren’t mentioning.
All that is left
is his happiness,
her faith,
and the questions
we should have asked.

To You

For Anna

I am the 6/8
thumping
in your chest,
when you stand
in the sand.

I am the simple
mystery,
the first puzzle
solved.

I am the ragged line
where shore
decays into ocean,
where sea
grasps at sky.

I am the sea to you,
the whole deep,

and I don’t know
how it happened.