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Presented by State Library Victoria

RECOVERY, A Poetry Collection


Firecracker sound,
That crackles into popcorn,
Pops into splatters
Of red on tiles.
Children wail,
And the game commences.

Mousey shoes scamper,
For knobs with keys
And tables playing barracks.
Pit pat pit pat
Heel and toe down hallways.
Bang. Bang.

Children huddle,
Legs pulled to chest.
Timid faces
Grapple onto breath,
As sundew drains
From cheekbones.

Fingers crumble
At the tips.
It pulls from the base
Of my diaphragm,
And stretches
To my lowest pit.

Big people
Are speechless we speak.
They want us
To build podiums.
While ears won’t meet,
Our tongues tied down.

We dive,
Into sheets of algebra.
To paddle,
Is all they want us
To only know.
I tremble.

Your brothers, sisters
Flee in ash.
Our parents, teachers
Depart on bullets.
My students, my children
Slumber beneath concrete.

They didn’t win.
What a loss.
My sight melts
In teardrops.
I tremble.
I don’t like this game.



If I told you
I made a child cry,
Who am I?
Harsh. Mean. Aggressive?

I told the child
Among their ragged cuts
And punctured skin,
Family was here.

I told you
I was still here.
Your chin wobbled.
Out came tears of relief.



My mother,
Bats away her monsoon,
Gives all her heart,
Like the ambulance siren.
Blink. Blink.
Floods of brightness.
Wail. Screech.

She sits at my foot
Thinking I’m stone-still.
Thinks my lead body
Can’t carry electricity,
Or the vibrations of my chest
Might soon plummet
Beyond the depths.

She can’t believe my teeth grin
Behind stitched lips.
They do, they beam up at her.
Throat is clogged,
I laugh in a riot,
Waiting for hers to join.
Her laugh is melting snow.

Can’t she see outside
Away from my white bed,
I step-over streets,
Like well city-people do
Because I’m fine too.
My mother,
I’m fine.

She pours her insides out.
Hollow, she has to drink
My red puddle,
To remind herself
I lay with porcelain bones.
She is barely lukewarm
With my cerise.

My mother,
Can’t believe I’m dancing
Beneath marble cracks.
She loves me. I can live.
Dear mother,
I am not dying.
I am beaming.



I loved the onomatopoeia in Sany Hook, it gave me tingles.

10th Jan, 19

Thank you :))))

12th Jan, 19

Wow!! This is really beautiful poetry. It has such a unique nostalgic atmosphere to it, and it felt like I was wandering through a dream.
I especially love the line:
"She pours her insides out. Hollow, she has to drink my red puddle"

Hope you keep writing!
Love, guppy

8th Jan, 20