This art is like fucking, best done
There will be consequences, but not
the ones we know. Not our dreams.
I feel its wanting, fluid and notorious,
and this is to be encouraged.
This is my rebellion, my practical
the wash of colour over my body like pain drying.
Reproachful paper-sheen, lost moments, a single petrel
flying around the southern boundaries of forever.
Foreshortened pencils rolling in the hollow
of my drawers. Spring again, my darlings, my words.
We learn as we surrender,
not all at once in some tortured
sucking gulp, but rather by slow
and timid grace-notes, a flower
reticent behind an ear
(but pushing forward, fleshing...
yes, she said, yes I will yes.)
Delilah Riordan, 2000