Angela Costi
Baby Watching
His charcoal blue eyes burn for knowledge
they sift the world in fragments
between the bars of the cot, he sees half a
mother
her hand reaching the door knob
again her silent escape when the music still
plays
those ponderous notes
-
the room now holds one breath
he can turn this into a cry and bring her back
he can turn over and stop destiny’s growth
he can search among the room’s shadows
which one holds the map, the puzzle, the key?
the things he’s supposed to know
the sounds have all walked away
the sobbing, the snoring, talking in loud
whispers
all the clues to find love -
above his head, the cot is pasted like a prison
cell
the rainbow spider sways in and out of the bars
the bed which holds the midnight tangle
is boxed and waiting, the curtains allow
daylight
one step in, the mirror finds another baby
this one is smaller with eyes ready to gulp
the room’s slightest tremble, any sign of her
return…
The mirror’s blankets begin to fight like
starving animals
he watches a mouth tear out its lungs
and make a sound slashing the room’s contents
away from the soft furry teddybear cuddles
the shadows have marched in, carrying scissors
and forceps
now he must cry louder than his double
for her heart to break in, rock him back to
liquid love
he stops -
there is that smell to melt all shadows
her arms, her breasts, the perfect bed.
Elias and the Cherry Pip
When I was little and keen like you
I too held my first cherry and looked
and looked at this perfect world
a satin blood sunset blush
a smooth bottom bell swell
the empress, dragon, wicked witch
of all the pasty green stewy yellow
apples and pears of meek mash
of spatty goblins, gnomes, gnats.
I too wished to open my mouth like a mountain
cave
fill it with this silent red bulb
my gums too tender to crush, gently they chip
sweet little ruptures into the precious heart
until the stony core is reached
tongue playing tag chasey
finding the slide, all the way down
without a hiccupy tickly prickly cough
to take root in the blossom cell
growing a trunk with cradle shaped leaves
a belly tree with thorny shoots
through the button, they squeeze milk jelly kiss
into a cruel bend of bark claws
to twist a baby into a tree frog.
You sit on your throne, high above
the fizzled loud-shaped toys
one hand forever stretched in unswerving demand
the cherry bowl has one more cherry
you are the knight, the prince, the wizard
with your mystical power secretly packed
you heed no warning of choking death
your smile hands me the Earth’s soul
I have no choice, I must give you a cherry.
Victor
He uses the stick to feel the Earth’s inner
pulse
if he falls, which is often, he will scream
for his mother, who is with his wife
there will be deathly silence while both ghosts
hide.
He counts each step like a complete year
there are twenty-two from door to verandah
sometimes twenty-six: those extra years he
can’t account for
they’re packed into forgotten suitcases under
his bed.
The park bench kindly moved to his verandah
and waits for him every morning, in complete
servitude
like Aladdin’s carpet, it will whisk him over
and above
the house, the street, the nameless neighbours,
the lonely letterbox.
They are fearless, crossing oceans and the great
wars
finding the first of many all over again: the
first pet,
the first job, the first kiss, the first hurt…
he never cried
back then, it wasn’t allowed -
now he feels it all as a child, as a man.
Most days he remembers to make a sign of warmth
to the woman who brings exotic food and searches
his eyes
without words he gives her all the stories she
needs
she takes his flyaway hand, kissing it into
complete silence.
