First night and he found the frayed seam of you. He pulled loose a thread to undo all you’d stitched up, when in a tangled mess I fell at his feet, ‘Don’t waste your tears. The land is dry. We’re out of salt. Cry me a barrel by morning!’ I faced the next day split as a fallen fruit, plum-blue. You became an ice-crusted country Your voice a fish that nudged in the deep.
( By Lidia Cvetkovic, Brisbane )