They say – don’t be sad
Over that which cannot be helped.
But I say – no!
I will hold the cold stone –
With the whorl in the centre
That I know as well
As the deep coil within my thumb –
Upon my chest. Let it press me
Down upon the earth so that
I may grow roots that reach
Past lacy skeletons of leaves,
Worms and ghosts of dead things.
Flowers will bloom from the centre
Of my heart. Here, take them.
They will heal you.

They say – don’t regret
That which cannot be undone.
But I say -no!
I will run into the sculpted glass
Of sea whose out breath is a sigh
And stand heart-deep
In salt-scent that rises in mist,
An offering to the pearlescent sky
Mirrored in the waves below
Like the world imagined, deeply longed for.
Brine crusts on my hair, my skin.
When I lick my cheek, I taste salt.

They say – don’t yearn
For what you cannot have.
But I say – no!
Like dandelions and feathered
Lallang grass pale with wanting
I will toss my desire to the wind
That screams, that sobs
And whips trees to mad frenzy.
Here, take them, these small seeds
That spin and roil
And let them land on rocky ground
Or rich dark soil, and bear strange fruit.



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