JUN 09

Famous Reporter # 39








White in the middle like summer
we squinted in the heat-waved air
trod the dry rotting houses.
I pressed my finger to a brittle wall
do you remember? and it went in.
This burning new year
we sank at your old house
into glasses of tonic water.
Stomachs tight with bubbles,
we fell asleep on the carpet.
You hadn’t vacuumed,
we hadn’t showered.
Your body dreamed, hand twitched
and pressed the small of my back.
The fan blew the gap between
my summer skirt and singlet
into a cool slice of cream,
slicked against the landscape.

Anna Ryan-Punch's previous publications include poetry in The Age, Quadrant, Westerly, Famous Reporter, Going Down Swinging, and Wet Ink..