This wasn't meant to be so... ewww... but it took on a life of its own.
Don't take it too literally, ok!
Why is it that I think of you
when I'm scraping out the sink-strainer,
digging with my first three fingers in the bits of pasta,
cabbage, namelessness,
scooping them into the compost
to facilitate the growth of something tasty and beautiful,
well-researched, annotated,
catalogued, categorised...
why is it that I think of you?
I think of you not thinking of me
in my green-flowered apron that belonged to someone's granny
with my fingers in the sink-strainer probing for scraps
And when I thump a cockroach flat
with my bare fist, compost it, wash
the death-place and my hands most carefully
with hot water and 'Earth Choice' detergent,
cooling the water in a five-litre bucket
to pour on the earth at the base of a plant,
why is it that I dream of you?
In my dreams you are not always friendly
but you're never a threat
in my dreams.
In my dreams
never once have you kissed me
or shown any affection.
We can dream only what we know.
A draft by Janet Jackson
Wed Mar 26 11:49:07 WST 2008
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Janet Jackson <[log in to unmask]>
www.proximity.webhop.net / www.myspace.com/poetjj
The Line Mine, bulletin board for Perth poetry & spoken word:
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groups.yahoo.com/group/thelinemine
Breastfeeding info & help: www.breastfeeding.asn.au
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