One part valium, one part L.S.D.,
one part iron infusion, one part time machine.
One part stinging nettle, a new pair of shoes,
sunglasses without smudges, novitiate on the loose.
One part ninja, wallflower, observant black sheep,
one part placating the ghosts who ride with me.
One part kitten calendar, two parts self-harm;
smile and strike the match, standing on the bomb.
One part fear of flying, three parts failure,
the butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker.
Six points the bright star of incantation,
blind drunk when I stop at the petrol station.
One part motherfucker, two parts go to ground,
lying naked in that meadow trying not to make a sound.
Lisa Brockwell lives on a rural property near Byron Bay with her husband and young son. She was runner-up in the University of Canberra Vice-Chancellor’s International Poetry Prize in 2015. Her first collection, Earth Girls, published by Pitt Street Poetry in 2016, was commended in the Anne Elder Award. www.lisabrockwell.com