Poetry

my little grandmother
knows no pain
she believes that
hunger—is food

[…]

That night I read The Revolt of the Masses not yet knowing
that at that same hour they
set houses on fire. They say,
an old woman tossed in flames trying

[…]

All I can do
to keep from believing
where, in truth, your last steps led,

Wake with a kiss on your lips.
The sun steps down through trees.
You sit in the corner of my eye
all morning, working on something.

Across three fences
the lights and noise of a party at anchor;
a paddock dusty
with stars; our lit-up talk
 forgettable.

did it come in the bark of a dog
in the eucalypt air,

the marsupial faces tilted, listening,
or the ghostly skin and the foreign hair,