THE SPINNING TOP
There is something about cold
days—something in their snake winds
that take you back to sun-filled days. I wonder how the rain
still manages to feed the grass—even the weeds
make their flowers yellow. There is something about time. It takes me back
to a child with a spinning top. The only way to see
those shiny pictures is to watch the top slow down
and let it fall.
I start to see windows and windows
of natural light. I can see inside the rooms of a cottage;
my hands are on the cracked sills; my mom’s thready hands
are washing things. My dad’s tanned hand is in the air with a hammer
and I am sitting in my car, staring at the wind swallowing
the weeds dizzy with winter flowers and my future without
him. I watch his grey face staring down at the kitchen table. Thinking
perhaps, of the picture on the placemat; the farm of his childhood,
the yellow grass that never turned into a sea of wheat and his Momma’s voice
that never called for him to come and eat. The planes in the sky look like petty
inventions—like plastic toys I can flick off the sky. I want to shake
the world by the hair and wipe it away with one swipe of my big red hand.
Annie Blake is an Australian writer who has work published or forthcoming in Antipodes, Uneven Floor, The Voices Project, Into the Void, Southerly, Hello Horror, Verity La, GFT Press, About Place Journal, Gravel, Australian Poetry Journal, Cordite Poetry Review and more. Her poem ‘These Grey Streets’ was nominated for the 2017 Pushcart Prize by Vine Leaves Literary Journal. She holds a Bachelor of Teaching, a Graduate Diploma in Education and is a member of the C G Jung Society of Melbourne.