Published in Australian Poetry Journal, vol. 9.2, DIS─, January 2020. The latter poem was shortlisted for the 2018 Judith Wright Poetry Prize. You can buy the issue here.
ORACLE
I have perfected a certain busied appearance
mien of semi-urgent somewhere-to-be
wheeling too swiftly for strangers to stop and ask
What’s wrong with you ?
or perhaps What happened (to you)
(to your legs)(to make you different) ? or
Why (the chair)(your legs)(are you here)
(are you like this)(are you alive) ? ? ?
Each question pierces something deep inside me,
leaves me cradling a wound that I try to hide
for fear of being further exposed, of showing
weakness before a predator whose hunger for
justification won’t be slaked with my discomfort.
Against the slurry of abled inquisition I raise
my own defences: a certain glint in my eye,
a lifting of hackles, a tightness to the corners
of my mouth, and if these fail I have one final
weapon in reserve: a quizzical tilt and question
of my own: Why do you ask ?
All this not from spite but simply because my heart
is already so swollen with various woes that further
distension would make me unable to move at all,
pin me to my bed and prevent me from rousing,
and I love the world and do not want to leave it.
I want to give my heart more room for love
than grief. I want to keep space for warmth
and not that sudden pit of cold that fills my body
at these innocent cruelties. If they want to know,
then let them voice the truth. The madwomen of Delphi
delivered prophecies of nonsense phrases,
inscrutable, opaque. When asked impossible questions
they gave impossible answers.
You have to figure these things out yourself.
THE DISABLED WARRIOR EMERGES FROM DARKNESS
for Margot Beavon-Collin
in Sparta we are dashed against rocks
discarded in Athens drowned in wine-dark
waters of Argos abandoned in Corinth
we are the long-prophesied doom of Thebes
tossed from Olympus but protected
in Kemet where they worship little gods
valued in Babylon beloved by Yehudim
called monstrum in Rome thought portent of
ill fortune foul beasts better slain or caged
in labyrinthine prisons far from the upper air.
in the Rig Veda armoured queens with iron
legs ride into battle like old gods like K’awiil
of lightning & sacrifice whose leg was
a serpent like Tezcatlipoca of the night wind
whose foot was replaced with obsidian
like Nuada king of the otherworld whose left
hand was fashioned from flashing silver.
moon-cursed they call us demons or deities
weird creatures suffering early purgatory
wild things possessed by the planet Saturn
fey changelings & children of witches.
these days the cavalry rides on wheelchairs
smashing curb cuts out of concrete with
war cries roaring out in electronic voices
& we are still dying still drowning still
damned & discarded but we are not dead yet
& when we die we die like dying stars
with fierce love & fire our light spilling
forth still visible from distant galaxies
for long centuries after we are gone the fight
continues the fire burns brightly on