Umbrella

I            can              see             why              you           photographed             it
the rubble pile in your living room that was once a fireplace, its crude metal
mouth  flue  stripped  back  to  raw  in  the  wall.  Now  we  stand  before  it,
transfixed, not saying a thing, as if the outpouring of rubble were words.
Then we go find the bunnies in your darkened scorched earth yard.

They ate it all, you protest, pointing to a bunch of vertical brown sticks
forking       skyward       like       a       war-torn       hand.       The       basil.
It’s winter, I say. Rose-red tapetum lucidum reflectors beam out from
under a bureau stood in the dirt. The rabbit lollops gamely toward your
sheltering calves, then away.

Then we are back in front of the brick-dust pile, magnetised as if by fire
itself instead of a demolished hearth. You sit on the sofa strumming an
unplugged       guitar,       fixing       me       with       your       whirlpools,
flirting             with               the              sound               down               low.
You let me see your room with the not so freshly dug hole in the covers
you climb in and out of, the clothes growing moodily on the forest floor.
Come over to my house and pass judgement, you say. Chaos it gets inside
my head
, I reply. You nod. Yours too.

We prop in the hall where a thin runner shivers over unreliable boards and
the paperbacks are rain-buckled. Your first flat, with your vegan
mushrooms lucid dreaming in a paper bag in the fridge, the woman whose
name you like to say & the boyfriend who shares your name, the two
rabbits that sleep one atop the other in a stack. I’ve only just realised
there           isn’t           a           finite           number           of           poems
that I can write about you.

Right before I go you pass me the umbrella: antiquarian, gracile, British
Racing Green. I don’t go for phallic objects. But this one, left at your house
by an unidentified party guest, I desire immediately. You offer it on the
spot. Verdant, slender-sheathed, improbably elegant. I steal a glance at it
now in the corner of my study: furled.

 

[Click here to read the poem in its original format]

 

Location and Geo Tag:
This poem takes place one Saturday evening in the ratty share-house of a friend, Illawarra Rd, Marrickville 2204. At a party the night before his flatmate had sat on the mantelpiece triggering the demolition we bear witness to.
Latitude: 33° 54' 47.66'' S
Longitude: 151° 9' 12.59'' E
Elevation: 16.22 m
 

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