2013+, wait

I dream a dog,
large, yellow, short-chained
to the rear wall of my house,
in sun, rain,
starlight, lunging
and snarling. Its man comes
and goes. I can stand the days,
I say, but at night
can’t you keep it
at yours? He doesn’t answer.
I can’t get past the teeth
to loosen the chain.

I ate scrambled egg
out of your letterbox
In the dream your house
was across the street
from mine

Mine had a leaking roof
a falling-down pergola
an overgrown garden
and a view of
your fence

While you were out
I sneaked across
to eat the scrambled egg

I needed
a better dream

reading the poems of women
born the same year as my mother
unaccountably
     a homespun hat
     a handloomed cloth
     she’ll leave me
     paintings of cats
     with flowers
     she’ll leave me
     a blanket-stitched potholder
     a gingham apron
unaccountably I fold
into tears

The pale-barked gumtree is blossoming. Again
it proposes its colours regardless
of the state
of —

Oh to be roots, trunk, limbs! Diffuse
autopoiesis, decentred
process, no call
for violence

Years and years of flowers held
out in my hands

First published in PPC COVID Drum 4, Perth Poetry Club, April 2020