THE MIRROR

Each Sunday afternoon
he goes through
his wife's clothes

In front of the mirror
he interrogates himself
as if preparing for
the RSL dinner

Against his skin
crimplene
satin
and nylon

For a split second
sees his mother's reflection
looking back at him

Reinventing his sexuality
in each anxious moment

He tries on
a floral
then a plain dress

He never asks for his wife's opinion

EVENING LAKE

Pulling away from the gravity of a lake
mosquitoes rise

The universe is caught in the nerve-ends
of a spider's web

Pier pylons grope each other
while dragonflies

Are wingbeating themselves
into a frency

Moonlight streams onto the lake
as intimately

As a dialogue between lovers

POND

In slow motion
goldfish navigate
above pebbles
like minesweepers

In a world
of tadpoles
their longings could fill
a whale

Each goldfish
is hand-painted
and sculpted
like minute submarines

Against the surface
of water
their mouths open
like bubbles

and silent

SHE SITS BY THE CAFE WINDOW

The woman from the recycle boutique has
had several face tucks

Minute scars stitch across her hairline
and behind her ears

Wearing melodrama makeup
and heavy rings

She sits by the same cafe window
and is never without a hatbox

Her nicotine stained fingertips tap against
an art deco cigarette case

She reads only the personal notices
in the paper

To check out the deceased estates
for clothing and bric-a-brac

She claims to know four languages
and calls the waitress over

With a different one every time
to order another herbal tea

She stays an hour and a quarter
each morning

And always rearranges the flowers
on the counter before she leaves

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