These poems are from Girl With Green Hair
For more Poetry
Texas Separation Poem
I wake in the night/and roll towards your skin/ your long
thin limbs/ but the bed is empty and you are sleeping in
some hotel room/ or maybe flicking the clicker to the
late-night news/ it is only money that drives this wedge
Over the miles and miles of desert, open farmland/ I am
There must have been days/ when lovers were free/ Today
I would exercise/ or read or write/ mop the floor or even
8.2.94, Austin, Texas
Firing Goddesses from the Murray River
In the bush takes hold
the bug to make
little goddesses of clay
from the river's banks.
A kingfisher circles
our morning camp.
screech the dangers of firesmoke.
For evenings the joey
bounds up close for a look;
its grey tufted mother
watches through the distant bloodwoods
as we ember-lay five goddesses
full-bellied, breasted, wise as clay
but faceless, for no hand could make
the knowing shine of a goddess' s eye.
In the 50's-style flat/ with the mad comedian/
whose madness and genius seemed so co-dependent/
where I worked to understand/his creative
drive that/ so different from mine/ thrived
on annihilation, not nuture/ but I would cook
and play wife to his strangeness/ until the
day I held in my hand/the red sponginess
ejected/ the two-month-old remnant of
the new existence/ I'd thought I wanted/ and sadly
flushed/ and entered the winter/ living room/and
said the word ‘miscarriage'/ and watched him
scoff/ and tell me I smoke too much/ then
slam the door to his study/ one week later/
I packed all I owned/ in the back of my brown
Honda/ and drove away to a place of no security/
singing to myself/ even after he'd hit me/ thinking
I too would have aborted rather/ than endure
a world as difficult as this/ with the added burden/
of a crazy father/only much later/in a room of
my own/ did I let myself mourn/ for the loss/ of
that little one/
Your Oedipus Complex
I'm unwell/ in my head/ today/ drove to town/ without acci-
dent/ somehow/ braking on bends/ a fraction/ too late/ my
dog/ barking in the back seat/ for several moments/ I want/ to
kill him/ but stop/ on a dirt shoulder/ instead/ and roll/ a big
fat cigarette/ I have to appear/ sane to do/ the radio
show/ I promise myself/ I won't be unwell/for the next hour/
He's unwell/ he writes me/ frantic letters/ all smudgy/I've/
I'm unwell/ I tell things to people/ then wish/ I had never/
for Joanne Kaspari
Can you sit again?
'We have a bit of an arm situation.
rearranging you like a jigsaw
but just can't seem
to fix the angle of that broken wing'.
sitting, watching her painting my
my brow-furrowing memories onto canvas,
my ramblings,my nervous edifice.
staring in a mirror, only better;
the slick paint
insinuates the shape of my face, and the one
I will grow into its carapace.
red wine while she looks intently.
A brush slides
out a lipsticked mouth—my red scar,
my city armour—
then eyes that stare blue perturbation.
sitting for Joanne and seen my face
her hands. It's an older, wiser me
that sees me
seeing Joanne seeing me.