Linda M. Walker


Cloth
 
se and if frozen more
nd of glass breaking
clearly hear the plan

e fear takes root
burning evermore
ippery glass

spreads slippery as grease
slippery and then there
be worse of all you can

hear church bells
haunt and chastise
eyes and she lowers

lippery and if
being swept up
verhead and th

the dark sometime i’m
by the sea arrive to a
wilds and looks her i

n body flits aroun
written about who liv
dead and buried in

in the eyes a
four decades o
uiet radio song



millions of inquiries


Teeth that do not bite as dawn fireworks wild delight

A small bitter enclave of peace

No way near perfect deal

I will believe someone is listening

From all corners millions of inquiries speed through me

Flaws escape moment to moment it’s a trying time

Tenderness occurs and grasps me as a friend

Outside the door tiny flying ants gather in the shade

A green tablecloth spread on grass

A swan on the riverbank with my mother



Home means that

That I held for rivers and lakes and
Clubs that the night city was no
Earthen eight so I ran a bath
Canvas my hair over and over
Were profile on the narrow she
Central over the years and chose the
With and left it on while I
Seagulls splashed my neck with
Sheets it narrow cut suit blue
No I looked formal I turned
Her surveying the flickering
Opera the wall beside the
The tv and masses of alarming
Slow misshapen by tight black
More with ornate lamps in the
Standing crack the back of my
Thumped to the landing

no

she draws a blank no no-one knows. she takes a firm grip as if to stand. no no no that’s not a sign. sand in her eyes no harm done. Sun the next day and the next day. skin cracking on elbows and heels. a tiny split in the sky opens her eyes. she is here by the cows and the hills. from the porch white smoke at midday. a surprise call no a small worn voice. no she has changed her mind. no small matter.



Linda M. Walker is a writer, artist, and independent curator. She used to live in Adelaide, now she lives in Mount Gambier. Trainwreck Press has recently published a chapbook of her poems, Thresholds, from which "Home means that" is taken.

 
 

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