THE POEM

This is a poem about how we couldn’t write a poem.

We talk in the comments about how we couldn’t write the poem.

We find tiny pockets of time to explain how we couldn’t write the poem.

We set up a WhatsApp Group to explain why we can’t write the poem.

We send emails about why we can’t write the poem.

And then, we realise, we have written the poem.

I couldn’t write the poem because the river flooded.

I couldn’t write the poem because I got dumped. 

I couldn’t write the poem because I promised my brother I would write about him first but

I couldn’t write about him either

I couldn’t write about my brother because I haven’t buried him yet and

Trying to write about my brother without referencing the nature of his death when it’s all you really want to know is

I couldn’t write the poem because NSW had its highest rate of Aboriginal deaths in custody this year since records began.

I couldn’t write the poem because I twisted my ankle at a protest about that in front of riot police in a legal observer vest. I was too embarrassed and angry to admit I hurt myself and also that I was wearing platform sandals — platform sandals! — when I went to stare back at the colony. 

I couldn’t write the poem because I was gaslit 

By 13 days of mourning for a Queen

Whose monarchy stole the language from my father’s throat to wear in her crown 

Not to mention my brothers faith in himself

But honestly, I couldn’t write the poem because #IrishTwitter

I couldn’t write a poem because I was psychotic and I was scared of WhatsApp messages.

I couldn’t write a poem because I was having threesomes with heterosexual couples who wanted to keep their marriages alive. 

I couldn’t write a poem because they always put on such a nice show, good champagne, cheese plates, perfumes, and they’re always so grateful, and the food and music is usually my favourite bit. 

I couldn’t write a poem because one of them acknowledged Country at me as they opened the door. 

I couldn’t write the poem because I was actually online shopping

Filling carts all over the internet but never going thru the checkout

I couldn’t write the poem because I was scared of letting you down!

I couldn’t write the poem because I ate coconut and I’m allergic to coconut and now I look like Hey Arnold! with lip fillers. 

I couldn’t write the poem because I refuse to use a coconut metaphor but I keep getting offered one!

I couldn’t write the poem because I feel like an imposter. You’re a real poet. I’m just someone who uses poetry when I can’t be bothered using punctuation or referencing my arguments

Also when line breaks

Delivered breathily 

Will make me sound 

sexy and also

Young

I couldn’t write the poem because I drank milk and I had never clenched more tightly, shuffling down the hall of a conference centre in an unspoken race.

I couldn’t write the poem. I am slowly ageing into silence.

And yet, I still put it in the poem that I nearly shit myself.

I couldn’t write the poem because all language at times is unfriendly to the body and its world.

I couldn’t write the poem because in any silent moment I taste an unwelcome breath in my mouth.

I couldn’t write the poem because I felt guilty. Because I’m lazy. Wasteful. Undeserving. Here’s a beautiful opportunity now watch me squander it. Everything’s my fault. No wonder my brother killed himself.  

I couldn’t write the poem. I was watching tiktoks of someone playing temple run. A text-to-speech robot reads me reddit AITAs.

I couldn’t write this poem because I am filming police again.

I couldn’t write the poem because nothing seems profound anymore but our rage.

I couldn’t write the poem because I had to go to a 10am zoom with mainstream media ostensibly to let them believe they’re white saviouring us, but actually so we can ask them to stop being so fucking racist in their reporting of climate change 

I couldn’t write the poem because to me most beautiful things can be moved past without note, present and enduring for all times. My hands are sweaty. I hold very temporary words. When I throw them at the beautiful, they don’t stick. 

I couldn’t write the problem because I wasn’t sure I should. I am the custodian of secrets and the keeper of stories. It’s important to know when it is safe to speak and when to shut the fuck up. My trauma is not for sale and I will not use my brother’s death as a weapon to stereotype my own - 

Wait, is this a “Resilience Poem?” 

I couldn’t write the poem because the thing I have chewed over for most of my life is even more unspeakable now than when it happened.

I couldn’t write the poem because it turns out James Baldwin was right about shared pain. The politic of now is novelty, how do you write our boring, common agony?

I couldn’t write the poem because I think I’d get it wrong.

I couldn’t write the poem because I think I’d get it wrong.

I couldn’t write the poem because I was reviewing my Dipsea Wrapped, an ethical alternative to porn (and poetry for that matter). According to my stats I spent 334 minutes listening to rough and dirty audiobooks this year

Which, when you consider there were over five hundred and twenty five thousand minutes available to pleasure myself, is frankly a disgrace. The only thing worse than spending 5 hours on an app you paid over a hundred dollars for is finding out that the stories you played on repeat feature the British Lecturer James who likes to take you from behind in the library.  

I mean, James.

I guess what I’m saying is 

I couldn’t write the poem because I suck at decolonisation. 

I couldn’t write the poem because on the way home those two thigaraa slipped over my car (clocking 120!), like they always do, close enough to see their pupils flare.

I couldn’t write the poem because I am scared of what my observation does to a thing.

I couldn’t write the poem because I am dreaming about a river pounding past a rock and then calming, and then pounding by a rock and then withdrawing forever. 

I couldn’t write the poem because I am trying to listen to my ancestors. If what I have claimed is not precise they will make me go back. And back. And back. And back.

I couldn’t write the poem because I’m not done yet. There are voices still waiting for their turn. 

I couldn’t write the poem because I didn’t want it to 

end.