Selected poems
New sheet
I bought queen sizeto tuck in wellunder the sides and endof my double bed,
360 weave, dearerbut better;this largesse I can afford,the extra sheen, quality.
I smooth its creases,throw it over;my silly cat hides and playsunder cover, as cats do.
The hem is good to touch,has a firm stitch.I wonder ... who pressed it flat,by whose hand
was the white cotton threadsent bobbing, in what factorydid my semi-slave breathe,labour? Was it here,
a sweatshop in our own suburbs,or a distant forced camp?What lamps burnedthrough hard-pressed nights
of work? The sheet's materialis light, a white cotton,beckons rest for me. Except,I still think over it ... who dyed,
sewed, folded, packed?Who went to their beddog-tired,with blood-sore fingers?
Wholimped homewith a pittancefor payment?
Nuggets
Poison dustin the creeks;the creeksdarkwith dark shadowing,phlegm.
Wraiths of the gold times,tin, iron,coal; the sicknessesensuing ... toxinsmerely marginal,authority maintained.
Scratch history,and the watersgush out, inordinate,nuggets washing awayin the downstreamswirl.
Points of entry
I was reading about the hole in the cathedralroof, someone's lineabout someone else's line,when the atrium I live incracked,its iron ceiling splitting apart for eveningand so that god could drop in. As sometimesgod drops in.This is the wonderful thing about suffering,just a sweet turning of genius words will light it up,a matter of the shell cracking, the distancebetween hearts disarming, and god choosingthe trillion points of entryfor the day.
Prisoners
As a child, regularly,I made dense awareness lift,dispersed it; setting it fine limits,I'd nest in the spacebetween dado and plastered wall.
The clock my parents bought themselves,wedding gift, struckphysically, on hours and half hours;I heard its chimes, faintly,reminders to fly back.
And when, in gaol,I learned how inmates did that too,went out at night,practised the radical travelling craft,it was small surprise.
You have to escape somehow,at least try.
I'm conversing now with peopletrapped on Manus, legitimate refugees.I don't like to question them bluntly,but I wonder, do they do it...rise up out of their weeping,
out of their no-comfort beds,clasping see-through prisoner bannersin their hungry, see-through arms,listening for any sounds of actual hope,listening ... to time breathing?
Linda Stevenson is a Melbourne poet who writes about the environment, political/moral issues and matters of the spirit. Her chapbook The Tipping Point, a collection of ecopoems, was published in 2015.