Each carefully chosen item
is a key, a sensory mnemonic
proffered as if casually,
a loaded code.
'Remember these? There used to be
a tree inside the old chook run...'
'Let me think: where was it then?
Over past the cattle trough?'
'Yes, that's the one. Inside the high
wire-netting fence were henhouses
and coral trees. From Africa,
with thorns. Do you remember them?'
'Yes, it's coming back to me.'
'...at least one Macadamia. I used a hammer
on the nuts beside the clothes copper,
squatting on that concrete slab behind the house...'
She takes a kernel, bites on it reflectively.
I watch her eat the white, sweet heart
of memory, warmed by the pleasure
sparking in her eyes
with each fresh catalyst.
We are ensnared by tensile webs
spun from a source we both access.
In the unconscious, time
does not exist.
The heart of the matter
© Copyright: Jena Woodhouse, 2008
Свидетельство о публикации №108050901625
Свидетельство о публикации №108050901625
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