Neroli

If I were a fruit tree
and my blossoms opened in white sun,

and my bitter-sweet scent
whispered of a bride

crowned in palace grounds
next to an ancient orchard thick with fruit,

I would let the breeze
tear off my petals for confetti

and cover the green ground
with my white breath.

The man in the moon

The mirror is a moon
and you’re the man in the moon.
Your face haunts the places
where the mercury has gone
and the glass doesn’t rim
the warm world’s cold twin.

I look through your hollow eyes,
your mouth, your black hair,
and see, dimly, the stucco wall
the bright thing was mounted on.

Do you see me?

I’m the one you slipped into.
I’m a warm sleeve and a cup of hot milk.
Warm ripples skimmed, quick, along your limbs
when you swallowed me.

Do you see me?

Smiling your smile,
I wear your wishes wreathed in my hair.
I make libations hot with love, quench seas.
You come. You go.

Do you see me?

I’m a question mark, curled
like a tail on your silence,
waving wits’ end to your wan grin.

What will I do?

Will I shoot a quiver of arrows
into your softest bruise?
Will I smother you
in a bushel of sweet lilies?
Will I peer behind your ears
and find myself, washed
in the deeps of your forgetting?

How long have I been locked
on your empty light, missing
the key? Will I find it? Will I spin it,
clockwise a day,
to the hour of your fall? 

Philtron

When you sleep your breath
flutters on your lip,

back and forth in the little valley.
I put my finger there.

Hush. I drink from that little cup.
Hush. I breathe your secret.

Liquid dreams darken
your twi-lit eyes.

Hush. The sun will rise.
You will wake.



Marian Webb is a poet living in Melbourne.