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 amandamcleodwrites.com