Megan Porter Poetry

Splayed colourful corpses, at rest against cold crust sand—

a beak of orange banksia, contrast to

twisting ash curling patterns for a graveyard

Fire smoke bursting Vesuvius outward

creating new fire in muscle fibres, get to water—get to air

            it burns: it burns

desperation pushing further

                                                            further

                                                lower

                                                lower

            a preferential jump from a burning building

A new fire rises.

This cannot be the end—

this smouldering home deserves the salve, the safe perch

it needs the bowls of water and seed the locals leave out hopeful in Mallacoota

The time on my fingertips again

in a cold vice that tightens across my chest every time I take a breath

I can’t hear you through the explosions happening behind my eyes

I’ve been through this a thousand times

                wait

                                                wait

                                                                                                wait

I panic because I’m still here getting older

Milk a fortnight too old, calcium supplements a year

Entropy

my right hand a crunchy fine dust

my lungs the slime at the bottom of an old Red Bull can

dehydrated eyes the sultanas I used to throw off the playground

abdomen juice puddles

I’ve been feeling past my prime

summer

slow, solitary

fan-humming hedonism

reality hits

autumn

rising stress level

delightful daring breakthroughs

another birthday

winter

limited wardrobe

ensconced within purple walls

those charming grey skies

spring

needing a lawn mow

black shirt juxtaposition

creating new plans

You told me once that my soul has fragments:

an expanding mosaic forest of all earthly feeling

a wonderland born from dream-focused senses

a blessing grown from all the cutting tangents

                You said:

                one-tree forests wither pointless in the shade;

                one-note stories attract no glory or attention.

But I think you need a sculptor’s discerning fervour:

prune some branches to create an orderly clearing

edit your dog-eared manuscript for grammatical tenses

smooth the antisocial edges to liveable, inviting curves

                I say:

                unruly forests are the first to be burned and felled;

                a confusing, chaotic narrative is loved by no one.