Harmony. Music. Forgiveness. Signs.

There’s a woman dancing. I wish she wasn’t – it makes the memory cliché
Or perhaps I am the woman dancing palm against the lumbar notches
Thumb highest, splayed fingers

somewhere waist band fingering
She wishes she wasn’t – such a cliche. Dancing being toe to toe
I don’t feel anything except
The touch of someone dragging me

into the wet bitumen air
We’re twenty three, we always wraith this strip, no one lives there yet
And the balls have full set sticky floors
I can smell kerosene. I imagine

someone facedown in this shimmering.

Published
Categorized as musing

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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