why does it surface now in the morning dark of a sodden West Coast street, that image of sunlight shining off her arm, her pint-size white cotton singlet, standing in a tin tub set outdoors against the house, my baby sister holding onto the sides of the tub with an interrogative tilt to her head, provoked by a laugh? a call? peering in light and shadow, facing what’s almost remembered, then turning her backside, busy with lifting something luminous, its pour --
two fading snaps from a backyard I couldn’t remember when I went back to search that Melbourne street. who was holding the camera? my mother, pregnant again, my father returned to the chaos of post-occupied Penang, his absence eclipsed in that moment of light, tiaras of drops, their drench, splash-- Stop it! now!-- cascades we understood, extreme in the moment.
Steveston, Liquidities) and novelist (Ana Historic, Taken), her most recent poetry title, Reading Sveva (2016, Talonbooks) responds to the work and thought of the Italian-Canadian artist, Sveva Caetani.
the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan