I stare out the car window at apparently limitless construction. Perhaps we resonate with skeletons, our new suburbs percolating out of them; the pulse and jut of naked road spindles and the bony reckoning of houses.
Natural birthing prefers a wholeness – skins folded and pliable like petals, birds’ wings, a snail’s antenna or the slip and wink of tadpoles. Even the wondrous fists of mushrooms or the bold elasticity of mountains hammering at summer sky’s steely anvil, have a unity, an enveloping of the nude structure.
We’re driving from the service to the wake and I squint forward into the sun – a huge, bronze medallion. The sky has been ripped bare, its lips drawn back like those of an angry dog. The Brindabellas glow purple, a jagged, lolling tongue.
Through the car’s sunroof a V of twinkling ibis invert the morning I watch you disappear
Written for Go Dog Go’s Brave and Reckless Challenge – using book titles. The title of this piece comes from a book by Violet Kupersmith.