I’m sorry Luke, I’ve been painting.
My life has been consumed with renovation madness, but in the meantime, Eleanor Jackson and I have written a heart-wrenching poetic dialogue, Chosen Family, for the Anywhere Theatre Festival. Please do come and listen. Bring a loved one and a warm blanket. Get your tickets here. Thank you to Doubting Thomas for putting his eerily good talent to work and featuring my poetic partner in crime in this teaser for Chosen Family.
In a place that is achingly familiar,
twelve-year-olds toe the line between
sundress and mini-skirt,
serving slices of cake to avoid the kids’ table
and dip their toes into the pool,
wiping sweat from their upper lips.
I do not wish to go back
and do not wish to look forward.
I love the nitty gritty of every day -
the strapping on of the Bjorn,
the awkward lift and tuck of one foot
and then the other into leg holes.
One hand pushing the cart,
the other gripped by tiny fingers,
the owl cooing over pak choy and ginger.
The spreading spit stain on the front flap -
this kid likes to face out.
The day her cheeks clear the top.
But Woolworths is easy.
It’s Aldi that’s worse -
the coin stuck in the cart,
bags on each shoulder,
hands full of diapers, wipes and crumpets.
The missing wallet.
The missing booty.
I’ve lived my life for these moments.
Three shirts
before nine am
celebrating twelve weeks.
The house smells of sawdust
and stale cigarette, but you -
you smell like butter cream,
so I hold you to my chest
and just breathe.
Most of my poetry intake at the moment consists of nursery rhymes, which I love. Especially since Lenni isn’t grabbing the pages and ripping them yet. Between Richard Scarry and Shel Silverstein, we’ve got the baby rhymes covered. So thankfully, I have Eleanor Jackson in my life to connect me to the adult poetry world.
We are at it again. The Anywhere Theatre Festival just accepted initial submissions for this year’s event. As a spin-off of She Stole My Every Rock and Roll, we are collaborating on a new show, Chosen Family. The drafting has begun. We are on the roller coaster of emotions writing new pieces, dipping into constellations and bending around what it means to be ‘family’. Feel free to have a look at our shitty first drafts on our collaborative site. You have to start somewhere…
You began as head and heart.
Your head was in my heart. My heart was in your hands.
Your hands clenched in two tiny fists.
Your toes poked through blanket holes, and we fell in love again.
She creeps into your room each night to feel you breathe.
Gently presses her palm to your chest.
Your chest rises and falls, and she falls in love again.
We step in tune and out of line.
On my back is the stamped hand print of the time she pushed me up the hill.
My belly swollen with her holding the steady rhythm of your growing spine.
She smiles like she’s swallowed a rainbow.
Her skin glowing red, purple and yellow when the door latch clicks open to you
laying in your crib, a fresh scratch on your cheeks like you’re Wolverine,
and we’ve birthed a superhero.
From your peach fuzz skin to your tree frog limbs,
I cling to you and her with my palms gripped at the tip top of the rainbow’s arch
and swing like an Olympic gymnast.
But if I’m no Olympian and she’s no gymnast
at least we’ve birthed a superhero.
