As a follow up to this morning's post here is a mix & mash entry by Maria McMillan:
a voice that’s not the same as hers
Under the trees in Victoria Park certain grasses
bleed. I shave parts of my skull to the scalp.
My old woman loses speech. The morning’s tai chi
moves like seaweed as we move our pockets full
of river rocks and jam jars our house made of bamboo
you fill it up and it fills up and you’ve filled
it up. And there it is. Whole mornings whole.
Afternoons. Cut and grow. Cut and crush.
I had a knife and you had shoulder blades and
a hollow chamber making dream words making
tyre swings and fresh water crabs, crackers and
boiled lollies. We scramble into the goat
cave and sit on wooden beer crates. We stay
until it gets dark. It takes two years. The rain
rattles. I press my ear to the smooth sodden
green turf. The goat shit. I see all this from the link
bus window. You go away and come back
different people. None of the hair I have now
knew you when you still knew me.
There’s a call from home. Shadow stands up.
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