She, of
the ellipsis

flying broom
night witch

sun-dance seas
breathing sky

cruise liners
panting smiles

white teeth
the allure

of a travel case
packed tight

on herbs
and adventure

sage of sweat
like she cares

for a dirty martini
rusty joints

on tiresome legs
hip Ferrari

of a man
bungan olive

too many
…maybe

[ii]

Wishing
she knows her night to stay awake
dreaming with stars in the sky
wishing an eye
can open up despair
for this pair of legs walk
lungs longing to be free
and the universe
breed its Jesus
annotated hopes in 3D
[iii]

The houses she lived in before fifty:
she lived in a few
and travelled out each time she had to move.
The first house had her all flustered and frustrated,
maybe because it was her first.
She didn’t understand. It looked different each time,
had strange eyes and a distant nose.
When she came home from a long weekend away,
she was a visitor learning how to live in her own house.
After four years she was done. She moved.
Her house moved too, to catch up with her.
They became strangers.

Second house was an ass,
the sort of ass who sets himself on fire
and calls the police to put the fire out.
She pushed this house into herself
like an addict shoves cocaine up her nose.
She found sense in the unlikeliest of places – Rodney Street
torture chamber where
she whipped herself with common sense.

The deadliest house
she moved into without checking the deeds –
her undoing.
A lion’s den
in a nursery school.
The children in her screamed
as this monster pulled off their limbs
until there was silence
like a bad joke on repeat.

Her last house finds knowing eyes,
a discerning smile
and skin that pricks with danger
many miles away.
She enjoys one
harmony with all
that is hers.