Alice Allan

    Killing time, we find a stretch of sand

    and wait for the sun to fade

    in the bay’s rough curve.


    So I tell you how I’ve learned

    death is Daliesque—an elephant on stilts,

    a camellia grown in the ocean.  


    How every set of eyes that met mine

    knew someone,

    something now gone.


    Oshima sits quietly, just south of Yokohama.

    Their disaster is two decades old now,

    a story between mouthfuls.


    So carefully you reply,

    watching the water

    turn solid in the dark.

      Alice Allan is a writer and editor living in Melbourne. Her poems have appeared in journals including Rabbit, Cordite and Going Down Swinging.

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