From Poetry and Poetics Centre

Amelia Walker

Exclusive to the Poetry and Poetics Centre

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Hide and Seek

My skin gasps

at the touch of this forbidden object:

a plain black cloth.

In the mirror, a pale woman winds darkness

round herself like a snake

tempts it to swallow her whole.

This is a dangerous game of dress ups

one I do not, can not understand.

I am a child hopscotching landmines,

losing myself in the whispers of this fabric

this culture, losing my self—and finding

a woman: not ugly nor beautiful;

not a size nor a shape

but movement, words and action;

defined by experience not age.

She is eyes and the light that flashes in them;

she is possibility; she is woman. I

am not this woman.

I can not be this woman.

I am free—I tell myself

as the fabric unravels and slips from my grasp.

I am free, I tell myself;

and I open a box filled with makeup.

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Confessional Poetry

This is a confessional poem

so deal with it

this poems rocks up at four am screaming obscenities on your front lawn naked

and it never shaves

and the Liberal voters at number sixty-four have complained

six times a week

so you let it in

and it dives into your bed, presses its cold feet on your warm ones

then proceeds to talk its greeneyed-unwashed talk

this poem wants to tell you

it fucked yo mama

(it didn't

it just wants to tell you)

It thinks the emergency department is a laundromat

and that the laundromat is the Catholic Church

It groans its hail marys through the spin cycle

This poem has delusions

of literature

It wants the Liberal voters at number forty-six to hear it climax

This poem giggles at funerals

cries at weddings

and tries to break plates at bar mitzvahs

This poem screams for everyone to just leave it alone

then cries because it is

It's covered in scars This poem

is not quite what it seems It's exactly what it seems

It eats all your food drinks all your wine

then vomits on everything except the toilet

It's always late with the rent

This poem doesn't have an identity crisis

It is an identity crisis This poem

won't start the revolution

but it's still too damn ugly to televise

except maybe at 2am on some born-again community channel

or as an intruder on Big Brother Uncut

this poem should just get itself a blog

or a life But then

this poem didn't ask to be confessional This poem didn't ask to be written

After it has finished with your fridge

liquor cabinet

genitals

address book

sleeping patterns

job security

and hope of ever reclaiming bond This poem

trots off with a spring in its step Perhaps

to visit the Liberal voters at number sixty-four

though you doubt it More likely to some party

on the other side of the world

where it and all of the other confessional poems will drink and fuck

and fall over laughing And it doesn't invite you It's still naked

and it still hasn't shaved And you

still have to tidy up

the vomit

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Walls

ONE

(Image of Australia as seen in a piece of broken mirror)

Knees drawn to her chest, she gasps

and splutters as if actually drowning

in the ankle-deep water

that carpets her windowless room.

She is dangerous

this woman

who clutches her teddy bear

and never stops crying;

this naked tangle of a woman

alone

in the corner of her dark cell

howling.

TWO

(An Official Response)

It is a tragedy

a true

absolute

tragedy.

Not that it happened

not that she was locked up

and saw the sun for four hours

out of every twenty four

not that she had to shit for an audience

of male guards

nor that she was wet

and sick

and naked

for ten months.

It is a tragedy

not that it happened

but that it happened

to an Australian.

THREE

(It doesn’t make sense)

She is safe now

the newspapers say.

She is warm and dry

wearing new clothes

eating good meals.

Everything is ok.

Still

she won’t let go

of the teddy bear she clutched

all those dark months. Still

she draws the blinds, insists

her name is not her name;

her life is not her life.

FOUR

(Would you?)

They tell me all the screaming

will go away if I am a good girl

if I just swallow.

But I’ve been here before

I know how it tastes.

Just swallow…

Swallow health!

Swallow normality!

and shaking hands.

Swallow weight gain, memory loss

diabetes, parkinsons

and more.

Swallow.

Ten months in Baxter:

now I’m back

in the same old war zone.

FIVE

(Beyond the border of medication)

A woman on the run

again.

It’s not paranoia

this time

the government really is after you.

The same message screams

from every radio

newspaper

and TV screen:

jump as many walls as you like;

this prison has none.

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