sonyaleeisapixi
inkfacewhorebitchpixie.
- Joined
- Feb 28, 2008
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- HSC
- 2008
kgonnadoit.
exodus
I pray sometimes that the sea between us will
open up
and let us pass as Moses did.
As a child in Sunday school I silently wondered,
was there mud between his toes? Did fish
gasp frantically at air as the Lords miracle occurred?
In my mind the Israelites were struck dumb, jaws hanging at the sight
of something so amazing. If only
they knew of the desert that lay before them. Would they
appreciate the mud between their toes and breath life into fish?
I pray sometimes, that I could only just touch your hands
at the expense of the sea. I wish that
I could be as selfish as Moses to sacrifice nature for pleasure.
I didn’t know at seventeen if I could live
with sand in my shoes for as long Moses and the Israelites did but I know now love,
how it can be that Moses could part the sea and give fish to air to drown upon.
I know now the burn of one hundred and twenty years of sand and I too,
like the Israelites awestruck and tear blind
would ignore the mud and race for an ocean of sand
if I could part the sea between us.
magdalen
when i was little and dirt belonged between my fingers and toes and
rats nested in my curls, my grandmother used to tell me,
"you look as if you belong to noone, Magdalen". she smelt of ice and wine, of
fifty six years of roman Catholicism, Communion and Prayer.
at six i was certain that she was nothing more than dusty pews and Rosaries;
of Hail Marys and Lords prayers, of wine and the body of Christ.
(i wonder if her crucifix left marks in her palm that night she prayed for my fathers soul.
i wonder if she really meant it, asking God to forgive her son
for the blossoms he'd planted across my cheeks and thighs.)
when i wanted to dye my hair and drive around in fast cars with sinful boys and
my lips were smeared with scarlet, my grandmother asked me
"Magdalen, where are your Roasaries?" she smelt of ice and wine, of
sixty seven years of roman Catholicism, Communion and Prayer.
at seventeen my Rosary beads leave the same marks in my palm as hers did
a night eleven years ago; i whisper Hail Marys and sit on dusty pews to mummble hyms.
(i wonder if God will forgive me, see the cross burnt into my palms from the nights i prayed,
prayed for my soul and prayed for forgiveness, and if He'll beleive me when i say
i mean it, i mean it when i whimper Ave Maria and Amen.)
grandfather
I feel as though there is a hundred words trapped behind this pen,
a hundred hungry words for hungry eyes caught
like the muddy brown crabs my grandfather sought
before the stroke left him broken and dribbling.
I have memories
solid as the bitumen leading to the mud flats
of my grandfathers bronzed shoulders smeared with creamy zinc
memories of the taste of mud and brackish, the way his body held him
as it now refuses. The man in my mind is bow legged and muddy. The boat
we teeter in is of his own design. There were no blue prints
only a longing for the rivers.
Here in lies a granddaughters heartbreak.
A man who crafted his own freedoms is now confined
stationary, not only with in his chair but with in himself.
Seventy-two and a mind trapped by a bust in a vessel outside of his design.
His scratchy cheek tasted of salt and ink. My shoulders blushed
under failing SPF and he is knee deep in mud. The memories splatter
together like the crabs at our feet. This time or that
is not important. What is, is the grin he gave me
gives me
a link between summers chest deep in river water and the cold resignation
of post stroke Bob.
My grandmother swears he moved mountains; I watched him build houses into homes.
Today I walk him to the bathroom
incapable he is, of moving alone to piss or shit. I feel a radiating shame
and I wish
to speak to him of the times we spent at Boambee East reserve
remind him of the way he carried me over oysters and the struggle of my father
yet I know
he is ashamed, irrespective of the lustre of his past. What exists
now is only the stroke. While I bitch about writers block
trapped behind a pen
my grandfather, my Bob, is trapped with in a sea wet shell.
And I too am suddenly ashamed.
exodus
I pray sometimes that the sea between us will
open up
and let us pass as Moses did.
As a child in Sunday school I silently wondered,
was there mud between his toes? Did fish
gasp frantically at air as the Lords miracle occurred?
In my mind the Israelites were struck dumb, jaws hanging at the sight
of something so amazing. If only
they knew of the desert that lay before them. Would they
appreciate the mud between their toes and breath life into fish?
I pray sometimes, that I could only just touch your hands
at the expense of the sea. I wish that
I could be as selfish as Moses to sacrifice nature for pleasure.
I didn’t know at seventeen if I could live
with sand in my shoes for as long Moses and the Israelites did but I know now love,
how it can be that Moses could part the sea and give fish to air to drown upon.
I know now the burn of one hundred and twenty years of sand and I too,
like the Israelites awestruck and tear blind
would ignore the mud and race for an ocean of sand
if I could part the sea between us.
magdalen
when i was little and dirt belonged between my fingers and toes and
rats nested in my curls, my grandmother used to tell me,
"you look as if you belong to noone, Magdalen". she smelt of ice and wine, of
fifty six years of roman Catholicism, Communion and Prayer.
at six i was certain that she was nothing more than dusty pews and Rosaries;
of Hail Marys and Lords prayers, of wine and the body of Christ.
(i wonder if her crucifix left marks in her palm that night she prayed for my fathers soul.
i wonder if she really meant it, asking God to forgive her son
for the blossoms he'd planted across my cheeks and thighs.)
when i wanted to dye my hair and drive around in fast cars with sinful boys and
my lips were smeared with scarlet, my grandmother asked me
"Magdalen, where are your Roasaries?" she smelt of ice and wine, of
sixty seven years of roman Catholicism, Communion and Prayer.
at seventeen my Rosary beads leave the same marks in my palm as hers did
a night eleven years ago; i whisper Hail Marys and sit on dusty pews to mummble hyms.
(i wonder if God will forgive me, see the cross burnt into my palms from the nights i prayed,
prayed for my soul and prayed for forgiveness, and if He'll beleive me when i say
i mean it, i mean it when i whimper Ave Maria and Amen.)
grandfather
I feel as though there is a hundred words trapped behind this pen,
a hundred hungry words for hungry eyes caught
like the muddy brown crabs my grandfather sought
before the stroke left him broken and dribbling.
I have memories
solid as the bitumen leading to the mud flats
of my grandfathers bronzed shoulders smeared with creamy zinc
memories of the taste of mud and brackish, the way his body held him
as it now refuses. The man in my mind is bow legged and muddy. The boat
we teeter in is of his own design. There were no blue prints
only a longing for the rivers.
Here in lies a granddaughters heartbreak.
A man who crafted his own freedoms is now confined
stationary, not only with in his chair but with in himself.
Seventy-two and a mind trapped by a bust in a vessel outside of his design.
His scratchy cheek tasted of salt and ink. My shoulders blushed
under failing SPF and he is knee deep in mud. The memories splatter
together like the crabs at our feet. This time or that
is not important. What is, is the grin he gave me
gives me
a link between summers chest deep in river water and the cold resignation
of post stroke Bob.
My grandmother swears he moved mountains; I watched him build houses into homes.
Today I walk him to the bathroom
incapable he is, of moving alone to piss or shit. I feel a radiating shame
and I wish
to speak to him of the times we spent at Boambee East reserve
remind him of the way he carried me over oysters and the struggle of my father
yet I know
he is ashamed, irrespective of the lustre of his past. What exists
now is only the stroke. While I bitch about writers block
trapped behind a pen
my grandfather, my Bob, is trapped with in a sea wet shell.
And I too am suddenly ashamed.
