Split

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   You watch me sprout from the seaweed
         tasting the strawberries of my hair
                   taunting the tongue
                      to wilt
                   at the sight of a soggy footprint 
         buried beneath the beach.
   Five even puncture wounds
         cemented to your bullet proof chest,
                   foaming at the rims
                      the coral of this tide pool.
                   From this tomb of tangles
         I see your dust
   pruning in the water.
         I speak to you
                   the red rubber words
                      of my dilated dimples,
                   the undercurrent flavour
                                  of this artificial kiss.

                                      - Rachel Gilliatt

Broken Blender

Broken Blender

please stand back
of the yellow line:
our blender broke
in the bottom of a barrel

the closed closet door -
a yellow line breached for a dust pan

pretend it's the Raggedy-Anne doll
being dragged by her hair
not you

hide her under the bed

hide-and-no-go-seek -
it's mom's turn to change the diapers anyway

dinner time - game over
wipe the dust from Anne's hair
and creep out
to go hug daddydave

he lies with 'hello'
her lie's in her eyes
(like the first day of school)

the cue:
"we have to go talk"

they make a pit-stop in the closet,
daddydave's coughing chokes
the sloppy sound of kisses
(gross)
they leave the closed closet door behind
muffling their talk 
with a radio.
a Bullwinkle show
later, they return
in new clothes

     finished the dishes
     to watch my cartoons
     a blender roars in the background:
     GET THE FUCK OUT

cold steps
under a street lamp - 
or was it just cement
next to the washing machine?

the rolling finger hills
embedded in my skin
are on fire Anne -
so his bum - Bitch

damn doll
didn't change the diapers

          please stand back
          of the yellow line:
          our blender broke
          in the bottom
          - in the bottom of

she woke up one day
and cleaned the closet
in 12 steps

28 days and half a year:
she learned to be an adult
- I a child?
she traded time 
for colourful key tags -
daddydave
got his for free
and my brothers'
custody

               please stand back 
               of the yellow line:
               our blender broke
               from here to vancouver

                             - Rachel Gilliatt

Gently Down the Stream (Repost)

                        will we ever

                        see through
                        the ripples
                        to our toes:

                        thousands 
                        of be-bodies
                        sculpting
                        this bed

                        too deep
                        to drain
                        so we gorge

                        swollen 
                        in this 
                        drought

                        and forget
                        the taste
                        of water

                        yet skip
                        stones
                        like shrapnel
                        across
                        the channel

                        where
                        hop scotching
                        children
                        chant

                        'row, row, row
                        your...'

                        and they
                        soak up
                        the rapid 
                        current

                        wondering
                        what song
                        to sing next?

                            - Rachel Gilliatt
                          originally posted November 26, 2012

Lady of Rank

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you drive
the beetle
right out,
lady

leafy earrings
tease
your scarf
from down under
as you lace
my coffee
with pesticide

your side
of the table is cool
but you wear
wide-rimmed sunglasses
in the shade

like hipsters do
with their grasshopper
leggings
exposed

i still like the song though

i wonder
if i bought your perfume
would the smell of old olives
infest
my memory -
      like piles
      of rot

polka dotting
the weave
of my garden gloves
you could never 
pull off

you weed
etiquette
but miss 
daisies

and now i bag
all that is left -

surface deep

       - Rachel Gilliatt