The Balance Beam Balance is noticed most when almost failed of –Jane Hirshfield, ‘Balance’ He taught me how to somersault,Shamed me with his arithmetic, Built me a balance beam:Measured out its length, width And depth, planed the OregonExact and smooth and safe. He set it above the ground,Let me practise, practise, practise: My body weighted all its edges,Open to his eyes, the air, the sun.Poppiesfor Jan Owen Action beyond their scent—they walk on air,gesture in every direction. Orange, cream, pink and red,they are girlsin women’s dresses, running—their eyes have no time to blink,each centre wreathedin spiked gold lashesas if while inside their insect bud they learntto sketch the sun. Discovered in 1977: Petrogale persephone But I prefer Hades where I am more than just a pretty girl …—Ron Koertge, ‘Persephone’ Her pelt is mauve-grey: uncombed as smoke.The moment her young empty her milk pouch,a foetus grips her fur. Her paths engrave the understorey––she flirts with gardens. But pink flowers are a threatand blindness infests the slipstreams of cats.Once she dissolved into rainforest, invisible(to science) until the year we discoveredhow a bomb preserves urban habitat,and a satellite transported a filigree of starsto prove Miss Universe was black. Instructions for Weaning a Baby Tell her it’s overrated. Tell her she will learn to love the taste of salt—salt on her tongue, grit of the ocean. Tell her, in the morning the sea is milk. Tell her about the sea-line—where the sea and the sky seem to meet. Tell her, in full summer, naked on a beach,the sun drenching her skin is not unlikea flood of milk. Tell her many thingsare warm and silky in spring. Tell her to drink an armful of roses. Tell her to slice a peach from its skin,let it melt on her tongue, find a way to that room— amber-lit as a jar of peach jamjust cooling in a pantry. The Price of Honey Her jewelled head lies lowin this gold-tessellated chamber.Everywhere she looks, she sees the sisterhood; there’s no way out—her wings have forgotten flight.She pulses with eggsat the heart of this strangemasonry of molten flowers.One of her royal daughters wakes,stings her sisters while they sleep;shrill with treason,the maiden bees mob and butt their ancient queen— until her body explodes with heat
Susan Fealy is a Melbourne-based poet and clinical psychologist. Her poems appear in many journals and anthologies including The Best Australian Poems 2009, 2010 and 2013. She is developing her first full-length collection.
Somersault image by Shutterstock.