tracey sullivan New Zealand
Tui Taonga 1-5 Penny Howard
tracey sullivan writes poetry. She is a New Zealander, currently in Singapore. She has poems in the anthology Crest to Crest and in the literary journals 4th Floor and Blackmail Press 32. She is not very brave. She is working on it.
Untitled In my mother’s house there is a perfect moth-shaped chip in the paint on the bathroom windowsill. There is an end of silky pink cord holding the shower curtain in place where the plastic bit broke. (It has been there six years). There are enlarged photos of her children flying up the stair wall - like ducks. There is guilty cigarette smoke clinging to the curtains and the carpet and the cushions on the couch. There is the blustered-in washing dried in the nor’west, gathered in the sou’west hastily before the rain. And at night, late and starless there is the waft from the bedside table, of the roses cut at dusk. Funeral Oh, Henry my love How primitive are we that buy a ticket board a plane and manage a change of 12 hours in 27? In the near future (where no one wants to be) we stand at a graveside in springtime. There is no redemption here, Darling You will reap as you have sown. Throw in sprigs of white blossom for the children. Bruise them with words dropped after to represent our love. Know now, as comforts Faith, the best the future holds is worm holes to another time and place.