Last night I had a terrible dream
I can’t remember what happened
but it left a shadow of itself in my
mind, and I know, I just know
my body owes my brain an apology
for all the trouble it has caused
and are you sorry, body, are you
sorry yet?
Category: Poetry (Page 9 of 20)
the wheelchair,
the cobbled street.
happy because –
happy.
No reasons
to be seen.
a stray boy
interacting with
nothing.
filthy hair,
head slumped low
but bobbing with
every guffaw.
Small town poverty,
invisible life.
a semi-stoned
shadow lurching
from side to
side in the
dimming
light.
If enough people see your scars
do they get any lighter?
if more people know why
there is a cavity
where your bowel should be
does your stomach stick out
a little less?
Is there power in more pairs
of eyes?
I feel better for being known
a tiny bit better.
I feel stronger for standing
up, validated, vindicated,
now that I have ‘come out’
in a sense, as a person who
has been brave, who has
seen things
no pair of eyes should
have to see. Maybe now
I’ll feel a little more free
too, a little more of a
loose cannon, with no
need for explanation.
I should now already be
justified in anything
I say or do about this.
I only hope those new
pairs of eyes can see
that this is a
terrible, and terribly
important part
of me.
searching for someone
who gives a fuck and
isn’t afraid to say so:
sometimes they are
closer than you think,
even if they are further
away than others you
had previously pinned
your hopes on.
What colour is cancer?
Not the colour of cheerful ribbons.
Not the pink of awareness,
or fun-run t-shirts, or a
decorative brooch.
The colour of cancer is blood red to me,
the kind of red that makes my
stomach flip over.
Red trespassing where it isn’t
supposed to be. The white walls
of the disinfected hospital.
The white of my mother’s tissue.
The pastel pattern of a gaping surgical gown.
The colour of a sleepless night, of shadows
morphing into hallucinations.
The blinding light of sunshine intruding
through curtains opened at 8am sharp.
The deep shining orange-red of
my insides. The dark green of
bile. The non-colour of cardboard
sick bowls and bed pans.
The colour of thick, opaque days
I couldn’t see past. The colours I see now
when I turn around.
Crumbling brown soil on my brother’s grave.
The darkest thoughts of my own resting place.
The ugliest palette.
cunning copper creeping,
auburn shadows stalking leaves
like urban predators –
grasping and smothering
them with tentacles, tangling
emerald with marigold,
pine and pear with honey,
mustard with pumpkin,
meshing garnet with caramel
and dusky cinnamon
with avocado.
raw, rustic rainbow.
leaves flush from green to gold,
faces glistening as they are pulled
from summer’s artichoke-hold.
be selective with your thoughts
let only the helpful ones in,
let only the relevant ones in –
the now-thoughts,
the kind thoughts,
thoughts that you would
pluck out of your brain and place
inside the brain of your best friend.
Awaiting acutely,
aching and awake –
far too awake, alert,
I wait
for days.
Artificial acrobatics, an
armful of blood
gone
anxiety escalated,
awaiting alleviation.
After Thursday,
agitation quietened,
quickly quelled,
dispelled until next time,
assessments and appointments,
awaiting a verdict again –
not-so-merry-go-round.
Young teenagers
are deaf
to the caring, clumsy racket
terrorising me.
Listening upright
on the pillows
I dare hurt myself
more.
