Outside my window is always different—
sometimes the gum tree slaps the house.
Tank.
‘Don’t come out today’.
Other times loneliness is there …
the taste of cardboard
while the birds tweet like rusty, old
wash lines – up, up, up.
And once there was a possum
looking in at me with dead eyes
–
somehow still stuck
in the crook of
the tree,
holding on for
who knows what…
Sometimes, I feel like that possum—
stretch-
ing
out
in the curve
of life.
Unable to go forward.
Unable to go back
while people fly by…
kites – their little successes
following them like ti-
ny
strung
out
rib-
bons.
I once had a kite of Oscar the Grouch
that would creak in the wind
and soar…
till a bully stole it
and I knew
psychopathy
for the first time.
Outside my window it’s always different –
sometimes the tulips are out;
bright and vibrant in memory and we’re
eating a mengelmoes slaatje
together with an
Aussie BBQ.
Other times there’s no window at all.
The stench of chlorine and bleach simply
hang
in the
hospital
air
and the woman next door to me
stops
roll-
ing
o-
ver
after telling me her husband
had gone too far
this time…
and I,
possum
am back to
being kicked
in a
cor-
ner,
face to the wall background
(YOU BIGGER THAN THE VORVADER KLOK FEET … LANDING … BOULDERS)
Outside my window is always different.
This time I paint in a lovely climbing tree
sturdy as a hand
and from my wheelchair,
I begin to climb –
up, up
beyond the clouds;
beyond my injuries.
Then I let my kite
go:
fish-
ing,
fish-
ing
for love…
and the light strikes
through the leaves
dappling a huge Macaw
and I fly into recovery
bird on the
hills hoist
of life
spin-
ing,
spin-ing,
sun in my shoulder sails
I smile as I plant myself
outside the house of dark.
When I grow up
I will become a
whole poem in orange
working against
domestic violence.
Carla de Goede
Melbourne, Vic
