The honourable mention in our 2009 poetry contest, judged by Sachiko Murakami.
Walk down the street getting wet from the rain washes
sheets onto clothes stuck to skin. Take clothes off; walk
down the street naked and alone. It is night time; the sky
is dark. There is no moon, stars hidden behind mass
of cloud, pollution. Every city dweller sleeps. Walk
for hours, wet and nude. Body hot will not cool.
Lick lips parched fat with longing. Walkabout—this
series of hallucinations: a dog with no name, black
and hairless, his bright eyes the only light for miles,
his speech unintelligible for the sirens. Police cars
followed by ambulances, fire engines. Would that
there were men on them—here, just hippopotami
and flamingos. Brain a pack of ground beef. Your
children are empty—walk around them as they lie
on the street, arms akimbo, hands begging kisses.
Walk on—no destination. A train track. Station. The
back of the caboose. Noose around neck will not be
removed. Heavy shoes, legs filled with weights. No hate
here, no love—just you, walking wet and naked,
pulled in two directions by head and feet, children
left behind, and no one to pray to.
