Sport 40: 2012
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
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.