Wednesday, August 30, 2006

the world stays quiet

By Adam Gibson

she woke me in the early hours and told me that the bats
were waving leather jackets to the night.
the next day she built a treehouse with stolen plywood
in the tree across the driveway
vowed to not sleep until she could speak to these new neighbours

theoretically, in hindsight, i'll decide upon a time that
i should act on this, i remember thinking, but
under the sun of the early months of her loving me
i let the world stay quiet

so then followed nights in january when we heard the coastal banksias
being torn limb from limb,
those ripping noises everywhere through my sleep
as she crouched in her treehouse four metres away across the night
and i'd wake to find her curled against me in a ball.

she speaks in an even tone about falling down stairs now and
wonders if it would actually hurt
i'm watching her wave her hand slowly above the hotplate
she watches me as i cut bread for toast
she says "okay" in a way that means "no"
and the way she signals her intentions
at least indicates she cares.

with the starsign of cancer
she reminds me every night
that the moon is shining somewhere and so is the moon

i have climbed all the cliffs around here
examined all the ledges and gullies

notes on poem: probably my favourite poem of the past five years.

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