by Joshua Klarica
Two boys to swim, sun beat, chests like a white sheet and that ancient, incorrigible guffaw. Dive, until the water is taller than they are, pirouette and star, chain link armour leaving their lips like a buoy to surface. Sink in saltless swamp, the breath in their lungs is confiscated by time. He sits on the sedge-lined shore nestled in the basket, and I ask for the umpteenth time, What is its name? as his patient smile drains and accuses mine. He grazes a finger against the sunlight, asks, That one? Our pruned shells grip the sun. The roots go under and over us. He knows I will forget again. Hiding in the roots of the Morton Bay fig, I did not know what it was called. Chrysalis bloom; its evergreen sheen can only wear one skin, and if I open my eyes now, I am surely smothered by its overwhelming all around me. Joshua Klarica is a writer originally from the south coast of NSW but living in Sydney's inner west, studying English literature and creative writing. They have had poetry published online for Queer@Kings and have a poem in the upcoming edition of London Library Magazine.
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May 2024
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