Zoe Dzunko is a writer from Melbourne, Australia, and is currently completing her
MA in Creative Writing. Her poetry has recently been published, or is forthcoming,
in journals such as antiTHESIS, Tide, SWAMP and Rabbit.

The Affair

When he places his hand gently
upon her back they pause for a moment
as though nothing has meant more
and for that second you wonder, is
that how we look? Like lovers and not
like partners, who so quickly forget the heat
of the other's touch, tire of the rise
and fall of the other's syllables in a way
they have not; that the child in the pram
she wheels belongs to them both, is it
really possible? Today, I will spend
the whole day hoping for nothing else.

His Wool

Of all of the wool that I have been in
propinquity to: the rash-giving blankets
of my youth; hobby farms swarming with
sepia sheep, their stomachs festooned
with mud stalactites; a sweater purchased
for kayaking camp that, on the checklist,
promised to stay 'warm when wet', and did
not; the blue ball I wasted, slippery stitches
skipping loops while I blinked - it is his
that itched the most. Of all the wool, that
wool - aniseed scented and oatmeal
coloured - knitted meticulously so the rows
don't show, like him, did for the first time
what wool should: kept me warm
and felt like home.

Hip Bones

Were youth; teenage parentheses
pressing against belt loops, hungry
for experience. Or they were, better
yet, pressing against neighbouring
hip bones. And the smell of mandarin
skins, spit covered mouths, hairless
bodies and those oddments Winter
stole. It comes yearly and passes
as the seasons do, covering bones
like a heavy snow. There ten or more
go and I have the fat of age on me.
So thick that even Morrissey or a bad
luck phone call can't get past.

An Ultrasound

I know we are made of the same raw
contents, rocks and me - and yet
I did not expect to so much resemble
marble on the inside - I feel quite human
still. Those questions that I will neglect
to ask. How unnatural it felt to peer upon
the interior of something skin covered
and impenetrable: nightmarish - I prefer
the skin. But on the monitor the horror
was there in front of me, black and white
just like all of those questions I could affix
to respective answers did I truly desire -
these questions, those questions and small
questions like why mould is permitted in blue
cheese but not anywhere else; how we can be
lonely still, while sitting in the same room.

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