‘I populate my poems with living nothings’
‘every poem is a love poem’, Anita Solak and Panda Wong
Once, I read a book of love poems written
by someone who was part-lizard. Another man,
part-snake, slithered in the tall grass. I ran, unseeing,
cutting through the sharp lallang. There was no secret
trampled path of safety where others had fled before.
When I finally emerged from the field, my dress was
in shreds and those watching could no longer read
the truth for the blood. Rubies burst into pomegranate
seeds within a coffin; cakes crumbled in mourners’ mouths.
A thin facsimile of pipes reeded through the sound system.
We sat directly under the air-conditioning vent so our tears
fell and froze like perfect chandeliers. They fell and shattered
across the black and white tiles. I’d made myself a rose but pinned
it upside down. They lost an amethyst in the green plastic grass
but it was me who found it under a torn paper cup. I know magic.