Words by Tessa Stickland | @tessa_sticks
Illustration by Annie Cooper | @kizmo_design
-
On the Deck
The birds here sound like home
As I lay
on the deck,
half in sun
half in sleep,
I mistake the dull crash of the ocean
for the hum of the freeway
I feel like chipped nail polish
Yellow fractures
Veiny cracks
The wind whispers
to the trees
and wraps its fingers around their bases,
brushes their leaves and branches,
and plaits them like hair
It’s sisterhood
But my eyes are closed
And my eyelashes are damp
-
At the Window
It’s layers upon layers of green
Deep, long green
The fog gives it a softness
that it doesn’t deserve
Rosellas dart across;
smears of red paint
Distant cattle call
Firewood pops behind me,
an array of damp clothes soaking it up
Someone turns the kettle on
Dirt clad shoes sit clumsily by the door
I feel my hand on a patch of mud outside
Rain spits into a small puddle
Pressure
And my fingers sink into the mud
wrist
elbow
Thick, wet
slipping and pulling
It stops when it reaches my shoulder
I can feel myself lying on the ground,
arm embraced,
as I sit, dry, on the armchair
Wet grass murmurs through my rain jacket