My marbles are lost. They’ve rolled under the bed, between my shoes and behind this mornings breakfast bowl. Will I pick them up? I should. But it’s become such a tiresome task, collecting them one by one, delicately tying off the bag in which they reside, only to have someone tug at the draw string slowly, slowly. But I always make the final tug, don’t I? Bringing upon the familiar clack clack clack of glass smacking the floor.
It’s December and summer still hasn’t whistled its hot breath in to our ears.
I find this frightening, the unpredictability of the weather lately.
A reminder that the world could just give up on us all, in one mighty huff.
Bruxism. Never have I come across a term better to describe the action of clenching one’s jaw, pressing the teeth together and then the final release of such grip.
No such term exists for the feeling which remains, so here it is: Anenula.
Anenula. The sensation of tension released post Bruxism. The feeling is initially pleasant and relaxed. However, it ends with the ache of wanting to repeat the action of Bruxism.
In winter, his fur grew to a healthy length and thickness which inspired you to enjoy with clenched fingers. Fist fulls of black fluff.
Summer time scissors and clippers. Shhnk, shhnk, shhnk would echo throughout the house as mum released him of his hot coat tangled with burrs.
At the end of each of his haircuts we would form the excess fur in to a side-on shape of his body.
The fur from his very last clipping sits in a plastic bag in my mum’s bedroom.
I had a day dream of opening that last bag of fur and forming it in to his shape, the shape materializing in to a real life form. Bringing him back.
Mother nature, the madam of a pollen filled whore house.
The shapes you form, the nectar that oozes.
Thrust under our noses, tied with a ribbon, pornographic perfection.
I remember the handkerchief in my hand, tiny fingers twisting the corners.
The smell of carpet, eucalyptus and wooden building blocks.
You were there 10 years before me, handkerchief in fledgling hands.
It feels like I’m still there in some form, waiting nervously for my mother.
With you a time before, waiting for yours.
My body can be an oddity, the organs play games and swap positions.
Like right now, my stomach is in my chest but my heart is in my stomach.
And then the problem with my brain is that it’s actually in my coat pocket, wrapped in a tissue, being poked by my set of keys.
My garden has grown,
now a fat and happy child.
The Purpurea’s flowers,
are the glowing callow cheeks.
It has been raining.
Water logged Nasturtium leaves,
like cups of lime cordial.