I don’t want to return home in the evening,
the purpled dusk dresses her skin in gold leaf
over my darkening street, so I linger and think
that I could be in Mozambique
baking on the hot beach tongue of Coconut Bay.
Walking my tired feet all the way to the airport,
with no luggage and no plan.
Shocking the hostess with her trolley of pretzels.
It would be easy, an incline of the head
toward the wind in the opposite direction.
But I remember the eggplant roasting, the rice foaming,
imagine the house up in flames.
With no reason to linger I turn home
to tear up handfuls of jasmine.
Unable to break the mould of evenings repeated and worn
made me ashamed.
And walking home I turned my face away
from the dusk’s entreating light.
Helena Bryony Parker lives in Sydney. Her poetry has appeared online in various publications, and she is currently undertaking a Master’s of Publishing at the University of Sydney.
Readers’ original and unpublished poems of up to 40 lines can be emailed, with postal address, to firstname.lastname@example.org. Submissions should be in the body of the email, not as attachments. A poetry book will be awarded to each accepted contributor.
Your support will help us continue the important work of InReview in publishing free professional journalism that celebrates, interrogates and amplifies arts and culture in South Australia.Donate Here