After "My table was communal, until it wasn't" (graphite on paper 2020) by
Hottest January on record.
& violin, I lean against an unknown
object, I know a candle casts an oval in the
on the mantle, one leg bent & one relentless,
my eyes weren't ovals until they were. Breathing
chilly curtain, my bed is in the dining area, I usually
sleep here, that table & chair are as relentless
as the sun & moon.
I stuck it on myself which didn't sound
nightmarish then. I'm recalling / disembodied voices /
unknown guest, unwarranted guest, I have
three bowls & spoons only, how could my colleagues bring
along another friend like a stray gum wrapper?
My table was communal, until it wasn't.
Dorothy Lune is a Yorta Yorta poet, born in Australia. Her work has appeared in Pinhole Poetry, among others, and she is currently compiling a manuscript. You can find here here: https://twitter.com/LuneDorothy and here: https://dorothylune.substack.com/