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FR39
FR38
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ANNA RYAN-PUNCH
House-hunting
- 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..
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