Thick-fingered hand clasped around the nape of my neck—
  —the hand of god. Of fate. Of whatever held that previous speck

of universe in his freckle-speckled hand.


Clasping a prayer between my narrow fingers and searching—
—may I please have an answer? A father in the sky? Somebody

to yell me back down from this high branch?


The oak tree me and Sophia climbed when we were nine—
—the godlessness of it all. We were Pagans then. God was

my mother’s perfume lingering on her scarf.


God was my best friend at thirteen in the aisle of Salvos—
—a piercing in a carpark. Half a gram rolled up in ripped-up

and still-flimsy bible page.


Cherry chapstick ******* smoke from Corinthians 16:14—
—the sun falling down behind us. Wax melting. The crinkle of

foil between your freckle-speckled hand.

Your poetry is a *******. That is
the first lesson you learn in adolescence.
To shut the **** up.

There is nothing poetic about love and
heartbreak and the loss of your *******
grandmother Susan.

Everybody wants to say beautiful words.
Sonder. Iridescent. Ephemeral. Languid.
How sad they are eternally.

This has all been said before. Speak of
the man you saw this morning on the train,
stroking his ****.

How his ***** made the shape of Tasmania
on that glittering, sticky floor. How his
breath hitched.

Speak of the first time you drunk-puked. Speak
of the smack junkies who holler from the
corners of the dusk.

Of the ugly way they walk—twitching about
stations like zombies. The Smack Apocalypse.
Holding out twenty dollars

Like brains in your hand. Speak of the screaming
toddler in the park. Of your clumsy first time.
The way you fell sideways.

Do not lie to me. Do not write of weeping in
a field of flowers. Of the ocean. Of the sky.
Of the glowing sun.

Of the springtime. Nobody gives a **** about
the dream you had last night. Tell me about the
dream you will have tomorrow.

Don’t tell me anything at all.