Write my call in the sand. I say please twice because
There’s no need for frivolous metaphor,
Ruby but redundant. The sand already knows,
It laughs to itself, so as to say:
Go on. Get it out.
Go write about your Grandma and cry.
So I do, and make sure to skip all the Grammar.
There’s no time anyway, the tide is rising up
To wash away my wet carved prayer.
Be as it may, the language lives on,
It always lives on and on
And on. A warm October is as concerning
as it is a hug.
It calls for a Coke can to my forehead,
Cooling down by the street cats
And sitting in the cinema for respite.
I walk barefoot on the pavement and notice the callouses.
Since her passing I have grown a pirate grit.
Aging like cowboy leather,
Reaching for old recipes like they’re bible and
Lying on the trampoline, studying the sway of eucalypt branches
to try make out their calligraphy in the sky.
As for sleep, the rock of the water
beneath my bed frame swells proudly.
I focus on the alarm clock light to keep it at bay
Until I am trudging up sand dunes inside an hour glass.
The molly coddle of the timer lulls my ugly wolf howl.
In dreams, the weeping woman salts a babbling brook,
And when I say weeping I mean keeping
Hold of the girl I run from and back home to.
Holding fast to my mother’s mother,
The MacLeod name, for all of its primal legacy.
About the Author
Jamie Riddell, 24, is an associate to a Judge at the County Court. She loves a pub parmigiana, reading romance, and her electric blanket. On the weekend you can find her down at the bay with her swim team - 'The Aquaholics.'