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I was born with a map of Australia on my face;it was beautiful, my mother told me – there was nobody like me in the whole wide worldwho could trace the edges of down under
This is my story.It is mine alone because I am the one who needsto tell it.I am the one who is still here,no longer stage right but
The dinosaurs are on the march again.They have trampled across the terrace overnight,Leaving green, veined footprints in their wake.Now they lurk in the undergrowth;
The living room remembers Gran dancing to Count Bessie.The kitchen can still hear my aunts fighting on Christmas Day.The hall is worried about the loose banister.
Newly baked and fresh todayEat while hot or take away.
Standing by the river, my face grewinto a flat fish and floated offto a lily pad, and I was lonelywithout myself, without my twin.
Spring is baby,bright, fresh and new,gurgling with the melting snow,singing with the first cuckoo.
Toothless, she kisseswith fleshy lipsrounded, like mouthof a bottle, all wet
She bruises your facealmost, with twoloving tree-root hands.
At dawn, she climbs over the horizonto slink between the curtainsand rest her head on your pillow.
Take an apple. Chop it into quarters.Count out three. These represent the lakesthat nestle inside countries, all the snaking rivers joined with seas – the blue that’s water.