Member Poem

And these are my failings:

a wild smile always leads my mind

to the kiss hiding behind it

and sometimes to plot

the shortest route there.

Did I say sometimes? I lie a bit, too.

And I tend to zone out to small-talk

like there aren’t already enough

idle words in the world. I often wonder –

where do they go, those wasted words

once they’re spoken?

And I can’t warm to people,

despite how I try. I’m lying again –

I don’t try at all. I’d much rather hide

with Lana or Bruce, in track pants, alone,

drinking vodka;

ignoring that night

in my fourteenth year

when my father got drunk,

made me drive his ute home –

the soft bump and loud bark,

the crimson accusation,

coagulating on his tyre

next morning.

First published in Poppy Road Review