My blood too is up-welled from other existences, winnowed
to iron, fertiliser, salt, & the redolent scent of prey in the stain
loved equally by stable fly & wolf. In the moment of shedding
some women, no longer in thrall to riding the cotton pony,
empty their cups to plants, & with the tipping of nine parts
water to flush away salt, turn their tea on tomatoes, on lettuce.
One more monthly ritual where the red bloom unfurls, a dying
brother has a specimen taken for testing in the lab, & I would
bring it home for the roses. His blood never could stop growing—
there’s something immortal about the nucleus. But what
it liberates, promises nothing to the snapdragons lasting just
a season, trying the rigour of what it means to be deathless.
Albert is sitting by the window, thinking about time and space and wondering where his teaspoon has gone, when he hears the two ladies come into the cafe. He glances up at them briefly, noting they are each wrestling a large baby carriage in with them,…
Introduction: First Ned Kelly’s skull then Pharlap’s mighty heart. Phrenology and the history of morbid awe. Next to be purloined for purposes of research was Einstein’s brain, (plus his eyeballs given as a present to Albert’s ophthalmologist). The…
Because our dreams were always linear, our markers white, we only saw the Cross, a dot-to-dot for mad flag wavers. Because our dreams were white lines, we did not see a beaked nebula, a neck stretched along the Milky Way. Because our dreams were…