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A Quarterly Journal
Jeffrey Woodward, Founder & General Editor
Volume 7, Number 1, March 2013

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Michelle Brock
Queanbeyan, New South Wales, Australia


Unpolished

I discover your stash of nail polish in a box in the bottom of your wardrobe and it seems impossible to imagine your dishpan hands, never idle, suddenly transformed into the hands of some pampered princess. I'd always assumed you wore your imperfections like they were a natural part of you—no need to disguise who you were.

Back home I hear your voice in a crowd. It comes from somewhere behind me. "Don't worry love, I'm all right," you say. I swing around. There's no sign of you, and yet I hear you so clearly.

along the street
the first flush of cherry blossom
my first spring
without you . . . I remember
how you loved pink

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