excerpts from her book 'Echolocation'

Arranged again in parallel lines, my bare feet face the door, 
welcoming the railroad of time space.

But death is not interested when I am.

I wake up like a dancer into a rehearsed, familiar position. The 
boatman has vanished leaving the oars and I am inflating unstoppably 
into my hollows - shoes, clothes, pen


2. 

Bury me in a frozen lake, saltless and safe, some day lifted to the 
eyes of a new person, telling her what to call me as she probes me. 

Drop me on coral entangled, hair streaming in the current, rocking on 
a seabed of pistons.

Leave me in the garden slope, a dial tilted to the stars, on the 
orange trail as they roll to rot.

Bury me bare as a bird obvious on a tree in autumn.

Was desire meant to be saved, kept alive, unanswered? But this is a 
deathfuck, different, the more I dismember, the more I want.

And you my queen of honeylips, the only one who ever knew how to make 
a ghost of me, play me a new song, recall me. 

The nagman brings a daily death, squeezes my breasts, a clay clasp 
cooler than your hand, gives me fingers and teeth.

The gardener of dust is using my frame as a mould for the shape of 
future dust. This is how the dust will grow leaves and the pencilling 
will fall to bits. 

3.

The sky is fitted linen, stretched over sealine without a crease, 
pegged to the spikes and jags of mountains, kingsize, navy, preparing 
to be sunshot, sooner than lovers can hide, no sooner than the taste 
of stars striking your lips, one by one stunned and falling to light.

It's all been said and yet, need, blowing between our lips, streams 
inside a tree. We flowed out of time and back so soon eating eggs our 
own. Through each other we pass like water. 

At the sun to see how it never changes, at the moon to see how it 
does, algae slipping beneath our feet, roots travelling and dewdrops 
dying in visible speed. There is no such thing as a circular river.

Unlike bread, the body becomes softer with age. We tag our children 
with our names, store the plaits of our daughters, stash berries 
under rocks and look for them later. 

Held in the fangs of a wristwatch, a well-worn path of a nail in our 
veins, heart-hammered time trail. 

No matter who two are kissing, eternity arrives, jelly bean eyes 
black crystal balls. The longer we look, the more we recognize and 
anything we could say is too obvious. The songs we like are the songs 
we know, and every song on the radio is about us.

 



 










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