Boxing Day poem

Sarah Wreford

 

The things we put away go quietly as if they never had voices to begin with. Empty spaces breathing out and our little tree liberated as we wind back in all our dreaming, a ball of lights connected briefly to the circuit. He is still thirsty and I give it to him, little alive thing. So are we, but there goes something that leaked like relief, packed away with ornaments and aired only sometimes, heavy like pudding. These days are real days, carved into finer points. He is so quiet standing it unnerves me. I water him a glass a day, struck with a commitment like rapture. Little alive thing. My hope for hope dries in the roof, pressed against ageless baubles. Betrayal blooms on my tongue tasting of pine.

 

Sarah Wreford is a creative writing graduate from the University of Melbourne, currently completing a Master of Teaching. She is a co-founder of Gargouille Literary Journal and has had work published in places like The Rag and Bone Man Press and The Maximillian. You can find her on Twitter at @WrefordPoet

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: