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Sport 40: 2012

Notes On a Sick Mother or The Agony of Leaves

page 107

Notes On a Sick Mother or The Agony of Leaves

Wake early, before the delivery trucks line the curb. In a teacup, dry
oolong opens, steam rises from the Fujian, the drain, the province of
your mouth.
~
Midday is ceaseless. Spiral snail shell, sound waves clink like plates,
crates: The Cornerstore, your cochlea; dull thud of a food tray
surrendered on the couch.
~
Then, in the lessening light, the exterior. Motorbikes vibrate the
tiles, headlights pass over. Reach behind, push pillows between
your blades, your narrowing back.
~
Your pellucid hands will speak for you, resting square by your sides,
palms up. Sopor, torpor, deep sleep setting the tone of you. You’ve
been to Cape Point, sung rocks.