magneto

Her tiny fingers trace shapes in my palm,
little maps to lost places,
where I, still, could believe in small gods

then she stops,
looks up,
points a finger between my eyes and breathes out,
“Here.”

Little Ocean

You came into the world blue,
and hands first,
a tiny clutch of fist and promise
raised to the light.

I remember you
lifted loose with
the goddess rope,
that hotline back to the big everything,
wrapped once around your neck,
the great ocean holding on too long,
not wanting to let its daughter go.

Every one has that terror moment, I know.
Your blue arrival was mine.

I remember it,
as you were lifted loose,
the doc untangling you,
the tiny mask breathing oxygen into you,
you blooming pink,
sparks kindling into perfect popping fire,
and the universe breathing out.

You, long awaited, a slow rising wave that finally broke,
you sang an ocean worth of salt and song,
as something long asleep,
and buried deep inside my chest,
cleared its cobwebbed throat.

And I remember you,
sprawled across your mumma’s chest,
with curled fingers
tapping your morse code hello,
your first filled lungs
singing out their ocean songs,
your at last opening eyes,
and the first flash of a
gentler kind of blue,
from a tiny holy ocean,
that both our hearts
swam into.

higher higher higher

your hands are so small
they are as small as galaxies
the moon is inside your mind
it is a firefly buzzing
these stars are so gentle
you could hold them on your tongue
I would reach up and pluck them down like apples
I would balance one on my forehead
and say hey kid come shoot this star out my eyes
and if you missed
I wouldn’t mind
I would be happy
I know your hands hold galaxies
I have seen you spin song from dead space
pulling arrows from your love struck dad’s face
would be apple pie easy

The most cliche haiku

“Higher this time daddy!”
as she falls back to my hands
both of us weightless

And now for something inconsequential and cute

Some days are grey corners of quiet libraries
where nobody bothers to read the books.
Where piles of unmarked papers
and the river passing by are cause for catholic guilt.

Some days are shallow holes dug in front yards
filled in with trips to Bunnings,
grinning garden gnomes
and bags of chicken shit.

Today was a pyjama babyccino date,
a laughing hose in the face,
and a two year old smile saying chase me.