The granite circle crowns dry grass
beneath the violet field of night,
he cups my cheek and strokes my hair
he says is like his mother’s
in the bedside album,
bushland bride before his father
the stones are teeth in the land
cobwebbed by his chaos long ago,
concealed cracks turned crystalline,
they fear the mirror face I carry now,
the mother’s body with the father’s mind.
He pushes deep and liquid rushes out,
he leads me docile to the shower and
kneels to clean my legs,
his tenderness a courtyard with a hidden latch.
I don’t deserve this kindness,
seeping, a soft punctured bug
I’m shackled by the sweetness
as the water bends between us
and dead grass shivers at my feet.
The droplets cannot reach it.
His genitals touch mine and brush my thigh,
“Thank you.” “For what?” He pulls me in,
“For being there.”
The stars glare down.
I’m naked, mute
sitting on the edge facing away.
I bump the frame, apologise,
from the bed he says,
“It could be you, it looks like you,”
her hair skin nipples all like mine,
a joke that he can later crack as punishment.
I lie prostrate.
Behind me he looks up at scattered stars,
he could get lost in,
that promise double joy,
I swum there once,
a brilliant shard that slipped into his eye.
At my back the blade refracts. I feel the rush.
Hand clamped on my mouth, arm wrapped
over breasts he thrusts forward,
upward, split wide