Claire Gaskin was born in 1966 and lives with her two teenage daughters
in Melbourne. She is a yoga-teacher, has taught literature-and-writing
classes for eighteen years, and has been publishing her poetry in literary
journals since 1985. A Snail in the Ear of the Buddha was published by
SOUP Publications in 1998. A Bud has recently been published by John
Leonard Press in 2006.

Cut flowers

Her eyes are swing-into-the-river on a rope and let-go blue

The shawl falls around her like a river,
or hair or an arm
Something about history, comfort and flow

She stands still by the side of the road
a stop sign for a face

He watches
she is just a pencil line
The tea the ink of tea is split blame
He is water colour leaning his elbow on his knee

Holding hands across the blame

The idea I forgot was blue
as big as the sky blue
open bowl blue

Let all fall from him

My face a wet painting

She turns her blue face to him in marriage
He has a ladder
He looks at her with a withdrawn chin

The birds peel the paint with song

I was born in the ruins of his life
Every word artefact
In the centre of the wheel the heart
unfolding the road like a love letter petals fall from

Let all fall from him

Sleep in the seams

Trust and trains leaving every minutes

The hills roll down onto the house

Highways and high times

Memory Hands

White snow on the nipple of the day.
Deliberate dream.

Blue throat

Falls and fumbles for light, for death and a reason to rhyme.

The night listens to the frogs.
Red velvet rock.

The mighty river is a hand to my face.

She smells of board meetings
as the sea smells of dead sailors.

The sleep of strangers stuck to shows of priests.

The cup aching for approval.

The palms shape the courtyard with compassion.
The leaves wave heavy with falling.

The black purse on the floral tablecloth
the crows on the kangaroo carcass.

Proof and purpose don't mix.

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