The Parrot on the Beach

There’s a parrot on the beach. It’s no joke. There’s a cage with a green parrot in it. On the beach. The parrot is making a hell of a noise.  You place your towel on the sand and lie down. Kids hurl sand at each other. The parrot squawks. Your lips are drawn in a tight line. A man talks loudly into his phone like in that comedy where the man shouts into a giant phone. You close your eyes.  A muscle twitches on your cheek. A small dog floats in a plastic unicorn pulled by a boy. You make whistling sounds through your lips. A man in yellow Speedos puts up a yellow umbrella. The parrot squawks. Your chest rises and falls gently. There’s a fucking parrot on the beach.

The owner explains that the parrot likes the beach. It misses her if she leaves it at home. It’s a sociable bird. What kind of person brings an animal onto a beach in August? It’s cruel. Madness. You should be stuffed and put in the cage with the bird.

I return to my towel.

I should say,

You’re burning.

Scratching at the wound between earth and space

to set free sun’s fury and cling to day’s light.

Air catches my lungs like broken pots.

I would sleep. Dream the cracks golden.

Shadows are stitched to my heels. Uluchor

until night’s terrors pale.

When I wake, I think of you.  You and her. I unpick the shadows.  I have slept for thirty years. Perfume and sweat seep through the holes. They puddle. Earth reabsorbs. You stopped kissing me. I avoid the mirror. Reflection fades. You didn’t see me. I take a cloth and bleach the surfaces. Colour bleeds like moth wings on water. You say you loved me. Dry leaves settle on the floor. I sweep them out. Love like blood from a stone. The garden framed by frames.  Rain has greened earth. We no longer shared secrets. I lean my back against the wall. I craved your touch. My skin is pricked through. Blown dust traces my outline. “The past is a foreign country.” I scrub the walls clean. Leaving you was not on my agenda. The flowers faded. Their scent gone.

memory                                                                  is scent rooted

Storm Wind blows.

Conversation

a drizzle of clicks

and whistles.

Storm Wind blows.

My feet pebble.

My legs pillar.

My chest slabs.

Earth exhales.

Her perfume flows

through my veins.

Earth tastes sweet,

whole, divine.

My belly rounds.

Mucky O. An inny. My daughter O.

Mystery woven of flesh and bone.

Bound for a moment.

We mix vermillion, ochre, and ultramarine. I push your hand into the paint. Coating it thickly. We giggle. Me conjured by small fingers.

I am

wide thighs

soft breasts

furrowed skin

mothered.

You see me blue

You see me whole

You see me rounded

An O.

I gaze

past your mirror

past fields of wheat

past rooftops

you cast

me free

Salt on my lips.

Salt on my fingers.

Salt in my hair.

Shadows flicker

loves me

loves me not

lick me.

Bubble of air

distorts.

I walk

into the sea.

You watch.

In the drifting

rippled sand

I am dun.

Tide rips

turns

me away.

Saltwater

cradles.

I inhale.

Marichor hits my ears. Sides of my throat. Stretches my lips into an elongated e. Green. Citrus green and lime. Sherbet lime. Cuts the tongue red.

Blood.

Birth scent.

Eeeeeeeeeeeee.

I am home.

Skin pinks.

Uninhibited

by muscle

or bone

it twitches free.

Flesh again.

Alone.