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she does
basinetted baby
tucked asleep
wake to unload these rocks
from my chest
overstayer
knock
knock on me
you are the saboteur
making a blur of Saturday
but never argue with a drunk they say
and i smother up the white spray between your lips
how i depend on you fleshpot
to suck me soft
as the waves rush the bach
then i can sit prepare for a day’s work
sanding at the sides of the hard wood bowl
bought in the Apia market
the ocean speeds up
roars
reconsiders
and i lay the baby aside sleepy on a sheepie
readying my soft cloth
Steelo
grit paper
and start cutting through the stickiness of old oils
to a new surface
releasing gold dots in dark wood
on this good drying day
sent from sun speared cold bush
and the truck of television turns over in the room
behind me
where news is happening
but solid walls don’t detain me
they are thinning
i am thinking of a salad
in my bowl
© Janet Charman
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