poem | Michelle Cahill

194-cover-smOVERLAND 194
autumn 2009
ISBN 978-0-9805346-1-0
published 22 March 2009





It is 3 am as I walk to the gate.
Dew glitters in the grass like fallen stars.
Naked trees are mannequins
lining the street,
where today’s newspaper lies unread.
And on the corner the post box
waits for an old friend.
Even the sugar gliders are dormant.
The silence is vivid.
It burns like the red tip of a cigarette
from these numb fingers.
I think, perhaps, there’s Venus in the sky’s
phosphorescent waves.
Rain on the tarmac
is a white bird with a silver tail,
or a fish without eyes swimming
into my arms.
Last night my uncle’s wife
died of a cancer
that hollowed out her bones.
I still have her locket in my dresser.
Speak no more of guilt for the lies
you leave behind,
for me.
Show me the disparity
between delight and pleasure,
if I should ask.
Tonight, it is enough
to walk no further than the gate.

© Michelle Cahill

Overland 194 – autumn 2009, p.75

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