This dropped
as a bird fluttered free
from a claw. This:
black waves, soft sines
gathered and stitched
along a wand. This
is not an artefact. Between
its closed hooked ranks
its flaw, a slit, diffracts
the light. I long
to give the smooth folds
of this to my fingers, take
its intricate truth, but if
I caress, my adamant
digits will unrender this,
unpick, unzip, split, crush,
scramble its whispered Is.
On the turned face
of my fist, with the breathy tip
of this, I tickle the trace
of a wish.
First published in The Authorised Theft Papers, the Australasian Association of Writing Programs’ 2016 conference proceedings.
Proudly included in the Western Australian poetry anthology Recoil 10: Ten Years of Perth Poetry Club, Mulla Mulla Press 2019.
From A coat of ashes
Jackson 