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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