We are saying nothing
BY THERESSA MALONE
written in a stolen pen
by my own hand kept
shake-free by the things i wandered-through-the-smoke-for, ray bradbury in hand
i, thirsty, frank, realise why
the smoke that morning meant so little, how i ignored it darkening the brown of the imported Harakeke--
Tapered on the curb like that. trampled, written about, smiling. The plant reminded me of something i saw in a notebook somewhere.
i grimace at night now
- The tan hard face of a juggler, tongue gone limp when he voids his ice cream to the footpath, my dad cries
- The woman eating a bowl of sand
Your face. I think of your face-- my own i am consciously unaware of,
yes. my face is unattainable without a mirror
- I, i could kill for a durry
- ‘Candescent thighs’--my shivering spine
and the dead:
- That ‘prefect’s’ shoes on grass, grass on linoleum, off, on, off. No, no, no Novi Sad.
Each new day begins a new flurry
In list form they bleed.
I hear them, you know, the images
I think of two-days-ago images,
Theressa Malone is the founder and editor of Milly, but also a writer who studied comparative literature and german language at UC Berkeley. She also edits for Headland and Pif. You can check out some of her other work here.