karung guni daughter

    She seems to have inherited my hoarding habits,
    squirrels away everything bestowed: fast food toys,
    birthday cards, pencil cases, pins. Turns feral
    when I suggest that scraps of hastily scribbled
    cat cartoons might be better off recycled. If a fly
    were to expire in her tea, she’d save it in a jar
    (next to the hapless grasshopper, the bee)
    never mind the crumbling crayon portraits, paper art.
    This is a battle I cannot win, not with my roomful
    of shelves stacked with books, files, notes from 1986
    propping up the crowded writing bureau: the jetsam
    of a life at sea with words, salvaging from ink and page
    a kind of driftwood shape, flotation. How else to keep track
    of where you’ve been?  As if I’m even clear what keeps
    or what is worth keeping.  Already the precinct trees
    are being cut down. A wave of prefab hoarding
    has scrubbed the next street clean of flagging skylines.
    So let her cherish a little of what is less than recent.
    Let her favour the crack in her favourite mug, just below
    the lip, the stains and stretch-tears in her purple sark,
    her bobbing buoy of uncombed hair, her deadpan voice
    when she hands me an old, used envelope festooned
    with faded stickers, tells me to hold it forever.

04 April 2014   00:35 hours
reading experience { } notes toward an aubade or ending