Sign
I can visualise the street sign—
its unfamiliar name—
but not your face.
Not really— flecks of shooting star
shone in your hair then. I remember that
but a friend tells me you are bald now.
Standing on that corner: sage, bay leaf,
baklava, the scent of flowering trees in
the tiny park where you swung me
as I held a bunch of carnations.
I can still see the dish of octopus
your mother placed on the table,
and hear the stray dog she adopted
clawing at the door.
But I can’t see you.
The sign had a red border.
I think of myself at that time
as a bird trying to escape a hollow
body wearing a watch that didn’t tick.
I remember the stencilled walls
of that crumbling house where each night
I dreamed of leaping fish that could
outjump ladders.
In the gutter outside, near where our
packed bags waited in pools of light—
and below the sign—
bitter oranges rotted.
Award winning Brisbane poet Jane Frank’s latest chapbook is Wide River (Calanthe Press, 2020) where she draws on the surreal in the everyday, her interest in art history, the landscapes of childhood and time spent by the sea. Read more of her work at https://www.facebook.com/