You have a new memory:
Every practicing psychologist ever has that
Japanese print of the Tsunami
in their office, says a poet on Facebook.
The system only dreams in total dankness.
There’s an overflow of green
apricots in the back alley where I walk
most days with my daughters to Black Star.
The sun’s not a sphere, it’s a tunnel.
I just wanna get past all the squashed hearts,
I tell my eldest. No they’re hearts of Te Fiti,
she rebukes, asking me to carry one.
Last night she had bad dreams about crocodiles
because they’re in Fantasia, dancing
with the tutu-ed hippos (they’re basically the patriarchy
and it’s definitely not like Moana). Is mummy
at work today? Yes, it’s what’s paying
for your Ginger Ninja, honey, can I have a bite?
Her fake wail rose then like a wave
over the jangle of Belly, her soft toy whale. Were there
sirens on Hawai’i after that missile text was
sent out en masse, everyone there islands at the whim of
more awesome fake forces? I wonder
what happened to whales near Japan when that
Tōhoku earthquake thrusted a mega chunk of earth up,
displacing an even more massive chunk of water
– did their sonar go haywire?
The vision on the USYD gym screens was
unclear (and nuclear) – I’d been thinking I could
make the basketball team to avoid my PhD
but then two shoes collided head-on
in a defensive scramble, lifting my left big toe
-nail from its quick. In any event,
I hadn’t read Derrida yet, and a ghost called ‘You’
called me from work to check whether I was seeing this
black sludge swallowing roads. I already had
my mouth open (not just in agony)
– I was swiping over cracks in my phone
to see if Fukushima hadn’t gone under completely
when the screen lit up, buzzed
beneath my thumb, as it does again now
with the girls around me crumbling
at Black Star, Belly jangling, a shooting pain inside my toe
where my toenail used to be entrenched:
you have a new memory.