Aunt Elvis

Listening to Elvis cures my aunt’s ailments,
and she knows barely any English.

I never guess what’s been her suffering,
but she looks complacent

staring at large at nothing
that metastasizes across the corral of Jack Frost.

We listen to Presley. My hands hold
the universe of the weak tea;

she brews silence and smile;
two kittens she almost adopted play with the sun.

Wind blows brown.
Our lungs turn into clay models from a school abandoned.

The Most Rained

The most rained morning,
muted crackling, vapor rising
from the leftover riot of silence,

my siren hand pierces
your stupor of dream.
“South of being burns”, I say,
and you ask, “Where

will we find a leeway
for our offsprings?”
I know not. Rain tiptoes,

fails and falls midst

two icebergs melting apart –
the time we perceive and
the time that holds us within.

Australia 2019-2020

When…