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.

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.

Leave a comment

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s