The girl in the bathroom,
her words are waiting
the way pips are suspended in the throat of an apple.
She spits into the sink.
Who is this girl. Where is this bathroom.
She throws something into the bin from a distance –
she very rarely misses.
Her heartbeat vibrates little waves through the bathwater.
She is an island, after all.
The sound of her blood in her ears is a fuzzy,
A voice from the next room calls out
Whose voice is this.
What do they want from her.
There is a pain between her shoulder blades.
It is a central pain, where wings would sprout from.
When she closes her eyes
she is in a room of girls in identical clothes
refusing to dissect cow hearts –
their purpleness, their unromantic shapes.
It is a hot, bright day
and the smell of blood fills the air, or seems to.
Underwater she is rehearsing
the moment she will pour forth words, which will be arrows,
which lodge in the thigh of a warrior,
who looks at them but doesn’t feel pain.
The brain tells the body a lie. The brain
tells the eyes a lie.
The heart continues to beat
after it is removed from the body
like a mouth failing over and over again to find words.
A dachshund with such a loss of spring in its step
that its stomach actually touches the ground
as it walks down the long gravel yard,
eats pieces of bread from my palm every day.
We have become friends.
The owner here keeps a cassowary in a large pen
at the very back of the garden.
Every day I watch it move around. It ignores me,
mostly, and it’s feet press into the sandy floor,
letting me know I’m half its size.
Sometimes I think I might be of some interest
to it, but I think it’s looking through me,
plotting a means of escape.
I’m the poster in front of the tunnel.
Over dinner the owner tells me to be afraid of it.
They can’t fly, but they can kill you, very easily.
Its middle claw is the size and sharpness of a dagger.
Best not to go up there every day –
it will think you want a fight.
I ask what the cassowary is called.
She gestures with her hand and says ‘The bird.’
I have fallen in love with the girl who serves us breakfast.
One day I ask for the porridge to be thickened,
just to be able to look her in the eye. She takes my bowl,
nods towards it and says ‘This is the right way.’
as the sun flashes through her red dress,
outlining her strong thighs
as she walks down the stairs, away from me.
I swim through the leaves in the pool with the tiny frogs.
I have never felt so close to nature as when a bird
lands on the sandwich
that has almost reached my mouth and eats with me.
I am smiling absentmindedly a lot of the time.
I’m sure I can hear the trees trying to finish a breath.