Later that night, I cut
the plastic boning from the bodice of my dress:
no need for structure, over summer.
There were bruises
on my knees I didn’t recognise.

I saw us all that day, all day
projected on a big screen:
	the bathtub underneath the orange tree,
crushed grass imprinted on my shins,
your cat-like eyeliner, the warm
sangria out of mugs. My feet grew numb
beneath my hips. Saturation.
                             I still felt overseen

when I walked home, alone and shouldered.

A black light flicked behind a balcony,
a woman, neon-lit,
              crushed out a cigarette
and turned to kiss, to give
a kiss. This wasn’t meant

to sound like romance. But
it’s not ironic, either.

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Fiona Wright’s book of essays Small Acts of Disappearance won the 2016 Kibble Award and the Queensland Literary Award for nonfiction, and her poetry collection Knuckled won the 2012 Dame Mary Gilmore Award. She has recently completed a PhD at Western Sydney University’s Writing & Society Research Centre, and is CAL New Writer in Residence at UTS.

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