as though my forehead were a mouth i could share
secrets through. i was never a good person though
somehow i am surrounded by angels.
as children we weren’t twins but we dressed almost
the same in clothes mum made from remnants of bewildered
reds, injured blues, disquieting yellows. too
often there was enough fabric for matching headscarves.
with our monobrows in our grey scottish swing parks
we were the frida kahlos of our time.
when i no longer knew what to do with it i breathed
my secret into your forehead
then careened through the
fog of the swing park, my
bulkhead taking on water
pulled on a puncture repaired
life jacket with a red light &
a whistle for not attracting
attention. in the shadow of
a marooned shopping trolley
i tore the wings off butterflies
in a jar.
in the days before anti-caking agents my grandmother
kept her salt cellar on the hearth of the fire, her blini
ingredients behind the fluted glass doors of the kitchen
cabinet. two ceramic swans swam lazily across her
sideboard, their hollow backs transporting house keys,
fisherman’s friends, silver shillings down the river
the last time i saw him was
in my dreams––
––wrapped in curtains that don’t
quite reach the floor, shuffling towards a roaring log fire.
i watch on, hoping he’ll trip & be engulfed in flames. instead
he pirouettes from the curtains & turns to face me,
his pink fingers, fat like pork sausages spread terrifyingly
across the mantelpiece. i wake thinking of bees.
in the blackpool boarding house the landlady wipes
down her condiment sets after breakfast, stores them
away behind the fluted glass doors of her kitchen
cabinet. the five of us sleep in the same room
in the absence of a telly
my father, itching for a
drink and not knowing
what to do in a room full
of his own children makes
sad shadow puppets on the
wall––a one eared dog, a
a peace dove having a heart
after breakfast we stroll along the seafront filling
our lungs with the good sea air we’re instructed to
inhale deeply. we pause by the amusement arcade with
its shop selling lacklustre starfish, brightly embarrassed
crabs, fragile seahorses that once danced to the music of
the sea, a solitary shaved coconut transformed into a little
hand bag, golden rapunzel braids dangling off each side,
its womb-like interior lined with warm velvet––a place
to whisper my secrets, to bury the bees
i’ve yet to drown.
This poem is in response to the photograph 'Untitled (Denise and Diane twinning) 2018',
by Emma Phillips which is part of the Shadow Catchers exhibition at the Art Gallery of New South Wales 2020.