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2 poems by Amanda McLeod

Monochrome Optics

The world is ripe with colour,

I know this. I tell myself

every time I look out the window—

but I don’t see it.

Shades of grey, white

if I’m lucky.

Most days I’m not, and

the hours fill with shadow.

The filter behind my eyeballs

strips out all the light

and the only thought left is

damn, the clouds are dark today.

We Don’t Any More

We used to go together

down to where the two creeks were in confluence

and sit for hours under the peach trees, feeding each

other, sweet nectar dripping down our chins

like blood from the cuts of our mouths

while leaves fell like wedding confetti, a blessing

on our union, from nature.

We don’t go back there   any more.

We loved to sit back

to back on the old porch swing, rocking

shoulder blades pressed like wings

turning our pages simultaneously

bookends, a pigeon pair,

as cicadas played two-part harmonies

in summer’s high heat.

We don’t sit like that any more.

We were two suns, fire signs,

the archer and the lion,

never sure who was the hunter and who was

the hunted. I filled you with

a hundred tiny darts of venom

and you roared and raged until

anger gave way to desire and we ravaged

each other like starving animals.

We don’t fight like that any more.

We balance on opposite sides

of the same bench, like adversaries

in court, each person ready

to argue their side of the story

while our breakfasts turn cold

the way our hearts did

when the snow fell and one

pair of eyes wandered,

and the other didn’t shed any tears.

We don’t cry about that any more.


Amanda McLeod is an Australian creative. Her fiction and poetry can be found in many places in print and online, and she is the Managing Editor at Animal Heart Press. A Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominee, she loves being outside and enjoys the quiet and good coffee. Connect with her on Twitter @AmandaMWrites or via her website


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