by Susan Kruss
The following poems have been published in journals but have not yet been collected in book form. They are a selection of work written since the publication of the poet's first book.
Dolls under glass
The curves and spirals of this shell
sliced in half to show its holes and swirls
are more female than the dolls
laid out in rows like corpses under glass
legs broken off, rounded white china bodies
smooth as teacups
fit snug in the hand
the smallest tinier than a little finger
painted features long since worn away
chipped as bones of a small animal
a few have black hair still
rose-coloured cheeks
this one’s bonnet frames the face
strange totem, ridged
along its edges like a pastry crust
set in a glass case beside
the weight of six aboriginal throwing rocks
the fragility of a hundred pinned
yellow butterflies
First published in Blue Dog
Sparrow
Your heart beats
against my palm.
When I was a child I held
a sparrow in my hand
briefly, until it died.
Its frantic pulsing heart slowed
then stopped.
We found no signs
of blood, wounds,
broken bones.
Perhaps it was fear
of rough boys
crashing branches
and pouncing.
We girls tried to gentle it
to calm. Our failure hurt.
The boys dug in soft earth
under the wattle
behind the shelter shed.
Cheryl said the eulogy and then
I felt its beating heart
against my skin. It wobbled
onto a branch and perched there
trembling.
Your heart flutters.
I try to count the fall
away from rhythm,
my ear against your chest
your arm around my shoulders.
I didn’t try to count
the sparrow’s heartbeats,
just watched and hoped
and waited.
First published in North American Review 2004
A Common Language
you call things by different names
greybells, you say, and red lowries
where I would say currawongs and rosellas
yet where I would say wattle or bottlebrush
you say acacia or hakea macrocarpa
cone shells, scallops, bubble shells
for tritons, bivalves, bullata
we are developing a common language
somewhere between the bush and science
our own language of greybells
paper nautilus, fairy wrens and cowries
many-pointed as a starfish, multi-faceted
and rich as the colours of the ocean
with meanings, sometimes, just for ourselves, yet
our bodies know each other without names
a language of hair and fingers and skin
where the common becomes uncommon
between us, implicit
a fitting together of arms, legs, stomachs
easy as breakfast, natural as waves
feelings that begin and overwhelm and recede
we can strip away layers to the bare flesh
just as I can sit at dinner with you and know
under the shirt, the singlet is tucked into
the underpants, your shoulders smooth and solid
dark hair curled around the nipples, pressed flat
over the stomach, a comfy mat for resting my head
below that, soft flesh…
savour every time, slowly
you never know when will be
the last conversation, the last intimacy
before something breaks and words
lose their meaning, suddenly become flat and dull
that last bright shine streaming away in the wind
leaving a grey patch or nothing at all
First published in Antipodes 2004
