Underneath My Palm

Underneath my palm
your silvered scalp

brittle goose egg
container of all our days

under my fingers our childhoods

hopscotch on the chalked driveway
squeals in the kitchen where you played magician.

Everyday I met you at the door
climbed on your lap to smell

the smoke in your jacket
pressed my cheek to your chest

to hear where laughter springs.
Beloved         now I fit you in my palm

like a cap         feel you quiver
fragile         white         and ticking.

Julie Watts (Western Australia)

First published in Poems 2013, Volume 2 of the Australian Poetry Ltd Members' Anthology, Australian Poetry 2013

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