Jayne Fenton Keane >
Today I bought a book
from a second hand store
illustrated with rough-hewn planks
(i) how to saw
take an amber filled gesture
notch a sealed thought with a blade
let the tiniest chink of doubt glisten
take it at an angle, blow out the dust
clamp around its edges with rings of affection
season it with desire, polish it dry
bite at it hard with steel and sweat
and feel the first delicious crack of joint.
(ii) spit and polish
Wire slips from an edge of dark continent
and I see one hundred million comrades
lick at their lips.
They bite their tongues off at the throat
as they buff and spit and polish your eyeballs
This is a Story About Water Too
All around the wind is covered in echoes.
Salt holds onto the ghosts of fish
in crystals growing like fish eye lenses.
There used to be water in this riverbed
now it is full of blood and the bones of missing links.
The bank is a fossil of lifeless
where the water is missing, where the water is lost.
The creek now only holds bridges with signs
marking where the creek used to be.
The stream got lost downstream
where the flow is missing, where the flow is lost.
An ear softens on the ground, into the mouths of aboriginal ancestors
telling stories about the great frog who swallowed the water.
In the deep recesses of bores a spirit bears witness to itself
takes the shape of extinction in skin made of crystals of salt.
There is salt on the moon tonight as a deep brown hand
digs into a riverbed to feel the dust change shape.
The ghosts of frogs croak in the lines of his hand
when he touches the ground.
When he touches the ground he can hear tractors
in the distance.
Rare tarantulas dig deeper into their burrows.