No gold is green

genteel evenings of Mosquitos, dessert and swapping bikes – your home looks nice and not of me.

as your house of bricks may be burnt right down you wait ferried about and again I am surprised that it should hurt me so to be a thing that to kiss makes you nervous.

the rodeo days are a pull back Velcro tacking snack in seedy gay brigade while I think again we are a dead roadside wombat in field of detainees.

unexpectedly you interrupt work with a late night visit and a night surreal and profane and then a body heaving on the floor and dry toast against the life of warm body.

rerun the family waters deep – avoiding she at the airport after the body after the OK Cupid after the vomiting after the dinner with Jonathan then body of Christ then blood of sins of athletes and fathers and sisters and mothers and again I want to fix not fail.

some ices some nights some places of dance bring you to my house later with a softened belly and then a bath and then the quiet and then the terror of the dawn blue blue.

what of it? isn’t it what it just is?

you can’t see she.

By Eleanor Jackson

Eleanor Jackson is a Filipino Australian poet, performer, arts producer, cyclist, writer, gal about town, feminist, freewheeler, and friend.

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