Aurora Scott


23 February 2019 (Brexit)

This morning the Serene Blue began to break its buds. Yesterday you said it should still be curled in its bulb, you moved it to the windowsill. In bed where I am bent and flushed I watch the belly of a plane in back-lit London grey. There are men on the radio talking about leaving and outrage. They boom in the kitchen. I know you’re back to sleep because your body’s hit the concrete, knee jerks in my knee involuntarily. There’s a whole story that could be told about our unconscious responses. Last night a storm came over the Channel. There was no rain but the radio reports that trees toppled and trains tremored on their tracks. The wind rolled over the city as a wave from the east, splitting into creeks between the houses. Socks from the line lie in bushes, covered in dirt. That plane could be in Mallorca by now; I think of arrivals: airport dim, hotel balconies, shore foam. On the radio the gauntlet is thrown. Things always get awkward beyond party lines, out in the wash. Yesterday we watched the panes shake from the weather at the window. You said that resistance can be a question of cultivating the uncomfortable: “how to wade in, not break.” But I know most try to avoid that. Contort into coiled shapes, or just exit.

Aurora Scott writes poetry and essays, and makes radio. Her work has been published in The Lifted Brow, Overland, Scum Magazine and un Magazine, among others. She lives in Melbourne.

  
 

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