am breath
am morning light tender-filtered through slats.
am blackbird raucous-relish in nest.
am knee lament-locked and loosened.
am thigh caress-tender under sheets.
am finger-tips curled into cherish-warmth.
am lead-weight chest grief-tight.
am body down-beat slump-still.
am breath.
……………..in.
……………..hold
……………..out.
am push.
am pull.
am uprise.
am screen wade-text flow-shock.
am coffee bitter-vital throat-sup.
am task-list slow-drown smile.
am phone-mask ersatz-ego.
am go-fast do-numbed insensate.
am dry-fast hasty-deterred tears.
am neck lock-space dense-bound.
am breath.
……………..in.
……………..hold.
……………..out.
am lift.
am drop.
am release.
am scroll-fast fail-light.
am sorrow-skip deflect-remember.
am dispirit past midnight.
am leaden-lidded shut-eye.
am breath.
**
Where We Keep the Barbies
This is where we live
This is where we keep the Barbies,
still in their boxes, corners peeling.
We play Lego here, blocks stacked each day,
dismantled every night, every piece has its place.
Build houses with symmetrical roofs,
no time for trees or dinosaurs.
Build a neat home for the dolly mommy,
daddy and tiny baby with its bottle.
This is where we keep the skipping rope, rubber ball
and bat, outside toys we don’t take outside.
This is where friends sit, the sofa wrapped in plastic,
wiped down when friendly intruders leave.
We sit at the edge of things,
hope they don’t ask to use the bathroom.
Dream of houses with asymmetrical roofs,
where our Barbies sprawl on Lego couches akimbo.
**
My Words Through Your Ears
You said in the meeting that the female client was hot.
I don’t know to be more offended you’ve made the first
consideration of a woman’s worth her fuck-ability,
or that by saying it in front of me, you deem that I am not.
“It’s just a joke,” you say with a sideways glance in my direction.
“I’m having some fun with the boys. I’m a good bloke.”
Don’t mind the bitch-face boss, not gonna bust your ass.
I just don’t think it’s funny. And no, I’m not angry. I’m tired.
I’ve crafted an entire person for your consumption. Gave
myself a footy allegiance, cuss words, brass balls, the lot.
To be fair, my act was never that good. No kids, no guns, no SUV.
No lil’ lady waiting at home. My curves like the lithesome strippers
up there, but with too many awkward political angles.
And I may have given myself away with one too many eye rolls,
when you were just being a good bloke and I refused
to get the joke. But honestly, I’m not angry, I’m just tired.
We were friendly so I thought we were friends. You thought so too,
because you told me the truth when I asked, “Why do they hear you,
friend, when they don’t hear me? Is it because I’m …”
You said, “That might have something to do with it.”
But I’ve worked so hard to make my differences invisible,
I’m a man for all the important intents! You said,
“That might have something to do with it — too.” I should
thank you for your honesty, but can’t look you in the eye.
You were a good bloke, faithful witness to my humiliation.
You think I’m angry at you. I’m not. I’m just tired.
When I hear my words through your ears,
when I hear the alienation, but not the tears,
I can understand why you would think the likes of me would be
snatching the rice — sorry, bread, from the mouth of your babes.
There’s no use explaining that I’m just like you, just want to live
in the house, with the car, the big screen tv, and maybe do a lil’ good.
These links are tenuous, will not bridge the differences that run
deeper than skin. When you’re with me you don’t know
how to be a good bloke. Believe me when I say I get the joke.
And I’m not angry. I’m just tired.
**
Blue Light
This is a rare dawn poem.
I am never the one to pad
around the house drawing up
the blinds, that is his
domain. Yesterday he slammed
fists into the steering wheel,
shouted why do you need
me to say what you already
know. Magpies chanting
through the dawn light in my
window wonders why I am up,
not still under the covers
praying for a little more
get-up-and-go-go-go. They
don’t see here in the blue, I am
allowed the light in my eyes.
**
Minutae
The oranges stink sweet and citrus,
you aren’t here to peel them.
Dirty dishes decay in the sink,
I’ve only heart to wash glasses.
No one here to taste for salt,
every dish I make is peppered
and listless, my heart swollen
to fill my stomach.
I found the curry
you left in the freezer for me.
Did you find
the sweater I packed?
____________________
Es Foong (Waffle Irongirl) is a poet and spoken word performer living on the lands of the Wurundjeri people. Their poems have appeared in Australian Poetry Journal, Rabbit Poetry, Kalliope X and the Best of Australian Poems 2022 anthology.
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Rochford Street Review 