Some things hurt;
we are all bruised.
In this body, a pretty body: my heart
a bloody thunderclap
the bones of my neck
like balloon strings,
tethering and tethered
When I’m not lying down
(or stretching or moving or
sitting or squatting or crouching)
I am standing:
not quite statue, not quite tree
not quite as inexhaustible
as a garden shed.
Some people think that all of these words
– I, body, tree – are virtually the same
but because I’m also wind and wave
so crookedly contained
I say to them nu-uh: with a small click
at the back of my
pretty throat.
This feeling’s not the worst but if I could master re-feeling
I would choose that first summer, a dark room
my fingers searching
your thickness of hair
transmitting these words
from your brain to mine (so pretty) –
life, legs, now
back when we were famished
too full to move – remember?
Our after-breath like wind, our skin like waves.
I remember, as a summer night might:
bedside lamp and shadow
window open to the street
no other feeling existing.
This Summer, With Vertigo by Heather Taylor-Johnson | Poetry Reed Diffuser Set
Heather Taylor-Johnson’s work spans novels, autofiction, poetry, memoir and essays. Her writing, recognised in prizes such as Readings Prize for Fiction, Australian Book Review’s Calibre Prize and Island’s Nonfiction Prize, often explores themes of belonging, illness, and art. She’s the editor of Shaping the Fractured Self: Poetry of Chronic Illness and Pain.
