your fingers, cold as 
snowflakes on my breasts,
conquered me, 

like centipedes tiptoeing,
goosebump by goosebump, 
towards the peak.

had they rushed in
like an army of ants
on a sugar trail, 

i’d have reined them in,
put them back in your pocket, 
trapped spiders mourning

broken limbs.

Previously published in Perian Springs, IV, April 2002

pink-haired girl
          –for bruce, tongue-in-cheek

it can't just be the happy hue she's chosen: 

there must be something in her step, 
perhaps the echo of a girl passing you by,
denying the possibility of love, or at least
some secret smooching after school.

maybe it's her mouth, the way her lips
close around the shape of an “O”, 
the tip of her tongue between her teeth 
inspiring visions of kisses in cinemascope.

or it could be her sassiness, 
that saucy look you translate as “come on”,
failing to read the postscript warning
as she sprinkles magic on your plate, 

stardust in your eyes: stubborn companions 
making you see quite clearly what a fool 
you've been, to think that you found her, 
that you alone know it is meant to be.

only now you realise that long ago
she sneaked into your garage, rearranged 
the figures on your number plate
to spell the colour of her hair.

Autumn Blues 

Midnight, and the hands of my clock
edge deeper into shadow. 
Sometimes rain breaks their soliloquy, 
but not tonight. Branches stiffen 
in dry cold, grass blades shiver.
If only they knew your hands

they would no longer hope for 
resurrection, content to dream
the way your fingers squeeze
poetry from each yellow leaf –
crisp haiku, discarded syllables
littering the hedges.

I keep them for the walk-on days 
of winter, nights between empty 
sheets and the impossibility of music.
This is the dress rehearsal;
silence follows the slow death
of a livid next-door saxophone,

chimneys sweat, plaguing the sky 
with insipid tales. Stars yawn 
and flicker out, wind curls up 
in drained swimming pools 
that pockmark suburbs with blind eyes, 
the moon's summertime mirrors.

She rises regardless, a lump of amber -
fossilised heartaches, splintered
bones of grief; she resembles you.
But I have learned to trace your features 
in every chestnut's clouded face, 
taught the wind chime your voice. 

This book in my lap 
can't be someone else's story, 
when I find among its pages
a word I had not known before you.

I, Cassandra

I never asked for the gift.
I wanted to be equal, not different.
Apollo came unbidden, a vulgar wolf, 
I still taste his spittle on my lips.
Everything changed. 

I saw where the gods cradle our future, 
and when I pressed my clammy hands upon my eyes,
each of them chanted my name, Cassandra, 
Cassandra, as if they lived inside my head.

And so it came that I knew.
Paris, retrieved from a bag, 
I perceived your part.
Helena, you Spartan spectre, 
I had reason to refuse believing in you. 
My people, I never envisioned your graves,
only flames, fierce and furious. 
You chose the easy way. 

You saw words creeping from my mouth
like venomous snakes I'd suckled for years.
The accusation “traitress” twined around me like ivy, 
strangling my smile, the songs I used to sing. 

I ceased to be my father's favourite daughter,
by cabinet decree. I, Cassandra, an affair of state, 
while my sisters were noted for their charms, 
their long thick braids, majestic gait.

Troia, I warned you, my voice shrill, 
not my own, but when I came around, 
you had already turned your back, 
except a few who remained to point 
their fingers at my foaming mouth.
You and I, Troia, an unhappy love affair. 

Nothing I said made any difference to your life.
To mine, it did.

Previously published in Mi Poesias, January 2002

On the Warpath

Al Jumhûrîyah al–‘Iraqia–
a white spot on your map
if it weren't for the black liquid
bubbling from its soil;
another war fought 
on that distant continent
cursing you in languages
you'll never understand.

But what if it spills over 
into your land of vast forests, 
steel cities, amber waves?
When dawn ceases to be a promise, 
the sun a mocking spotlight, 
remote in space, will you believe 
wars can be won?

You think you're safe. 
But can you escape Ishtar’s* eyes, 
her arrow, her lapis lazuli sword?
Perhaps the tattered children 
will be avenged in pastel suburbs, 
ragged burquas become your shrouds.

America, your deserts murmur 
in ancient tongues, u-li-si-gi u-lo-gi-la**, 
the sky will shed auk, koko,
onekwenhsa, sangre***, 
and dye mermaid's hair
the colour of slaughtered buffalo.

Listen–mountains rumble, 
gathering ghosts inside their wombs. 
Already, eagles screech 
a farewell to all your gods.

   *Ishtar: Babylonian goddess of war, fertility and love; lapis lazuli is  ----her stone, and she is often represented with quiver, bow, and   ----arrow, or the sword
 **Dark clouds have formed (Cherokee)
***blood (Inuktitut, Hawai’ian, Mohawk, Spanish)