Only the veils tear

I can hear the pain under my left shoulder.

The trees ring in my ears.

The pen tells lies to the page.

The river is a reason for quiet.

Leave the bones on an anthill and they will be cleaned of questions and last lines and rhymes and commas.

The bird’s call cuts a colour across the grey curtain.

The flywire cuts the sky into tiny squares.

In answer to your question there is none.
In answer to the fall is the ground.

The wind rattles the doors and frames and someone’s plans.
The clouds sit behind the trees like the base tone.

The water in me cries for the ocean, breaking breath with the plants.

I’m in the flames of questions,
the hands of flowers.

A prayer in answer to my river.
The words on the yellow page look like fly-dirt with the light behind them.

My face in the photo retreats into the flame.
The flame partly hidden by the petals of the flower.

The sun gestures to the mountain to finish the day.

The flame is alive like water flowing.

Landscape of hands moulding the light.

Drowsy centuries stare out the opaque windows.

About the Poet
___________________________________________________________________________________

Claire Gaskin has been publishing in literary journals for nearly twenty years, most recently in Meanjin, Slope and The Age. A Snail in the Ear of the Buddha was published by SOUP Publications in 1998. She currently teaches creative writing at adult learning centres. She lives with her husband and two daughters in Mansfield, Victoria.

Email: clairegaskin@bigpond.com