mornings I wake
surrounded by shards
of mirror-glass
step backwards
into the shower
emerge from the foam
naked and once again
confused
the suit fits
but sits askew
my face different
under this sky
that tumbles pink painted blooms
onto me
as I drive to work
it seems familiar
but even the seagulls screech differently
and once more
the teeth of the sea
grin
at me
turn into tongues
waggle
say
this isn’t really your place.
Tasmania, September 2010
1 comment:
The language that you have utilised in this poem is disarming, Renee. The lines 'my face different / under this sky / that tumbles pink painted blooms' are incredibly arresting. Thank you for posting it!
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