Rue of Maiorum by Annie Blake

for Ehrlich

i wanted my life to live i noticed her green cat eyes her arms had been scratched by the sun thin like sucked meat of slither of bone swathes lifted onto the loft my life in no particular succession for i’m in atonement for my rendition

cracks make images on the field of wall when i used to play on the floor something is always itching the present in the past two houses were never the same industrial revolution what is the point of pre-birth defect testing are they telling me she is worth less than me love is not a body it is the initiator of seawater blood is sweeter than plums

we cannot plan the future i need time for my tragedies making the time mourning my dead child she is dressed in white frills pastels fragile ballet dancer gateaux my cake of crumbs i dip my nails in her cherry just half way i rearrange her body she is made of compunctions her insect legs knotted or strewn across her chest rusty needles like chicken ribs eggs round in cowardice i am always being filmed especially in my house when i’m alone

my wedding day wasn’t the happiest day of my life i smile on the microphone ladies and gentlemen we are announcing a war the audience have stopped typing my narrative for they shift in their seats my shiny slice of knives succinct unsheathing of my elbow how can one take in so much beauty in one such life i had a chance once to understand how light could come out of me no one told me there would be chandeliers like feet walking above the ground toes like hot stars crown of christ’s tree stilla maris

i can’t give the audience’s perspective for i haven’t had the chance to observe you in your sleep i don’t know if we’re resolved enough to wear beauty without corruption the catalyst of my downfall can be attributed to my strange ability to be god the girl is licking her ice-cream from the inside she is wedged sideways in the pit of our cone i am the only one who can see her the undulations she makes on the surface of the world the fever churning of dormant stomach acid when there is an air raid i am floating into the black body nailed on a cross

my children and forebears are permanent like the rain cycle she walks on the brass of the bed when the sun undoes his belly she has learnt to entrust her body to him because she thinks he makes her glow would you rather go to prison or would you rather go to war at sunset my writing paper starts to burn shimmers in her skin she is too young to understand flirtatiousness let alone what it can lead to

my father is hypnoid her arms leave the aftertaste of blackberries black rain dribbling under my sunday blouse constipation of the throat memories are made of skins of tied sand when the sun mixes in with the shore rolling down the green hill even grass can break the skin i ran before i could walk my father took a video of me showed us stories on a breached wall when we were young

why did his father shoot men trying to save themselves with parachutes from bombed planes he told me he laughed because he survived the war my father was afraid of shadows more afraid than me i used to hide in the garage till three in the morning to finish off my essays my father wanted me to fail when i got my first teaching job he yelled because it was 45 minutes away from home

his mouth smelled of morbidity sealed dilation of my yawn breath of someone too attached in your bed closed windows without expiration she only wears skin in front of me we are too goal-oriented if it’s not the season for wrath you can buy it from another country delivered in a box double the price

my daughter died it was simple her boat overturned and she couldn’t swim her clothes turn up in the laundry basket a mother watches how does she pass on her small clothes to the next child her morgue parts are needed for someone else to survive long fishing line hooks under the sand i pull up a feather her plaited hair a woman’s head i hide dead women under my house

as the sun rises so does my body i lie on the icing with her on this white sea of sleep ears are round listening canals like shells i hear messages from salt when i text her on my cell phone my writing wounds itself like a clock a dial i tell her i have made it home evolving means stepping on one stone at a time crop will get eaten by locusts the drought is a well minerva and her gift of the olive tree

when i was a child i was better acquainted with the ground i could see them especially in the bone of wood and through their eyes and out of their mouth i would crawl inside to fill them
but what is a satiated body +++++++++++++++ what is a letter never sent

Annie Blake is an Australian writer, thinker and researcher. She is a wife and mother of five children. She started school as an EAL student and was raised and, continues to live in a multicultural and industrial location in the West of Melbourne. Her main interests include psychoanalysis and metaphysics. She is currently focusing on in medias res and arthouse writing. She enjoys exploring symbology and the surreal/psychedelic nature of unconscious material. She is a member of the C G Jung Society of Melbourne and Existentialist Society in Melbourne. You can visit her on and

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