The air sparkles with ice,
There’s a cattle dog on the doorstep.
She made a film of herself
storming down King Street
tearing her clothes off,
hurling them at strangers.
When she was in the facility she
grew obsessed by the bench
padlocked to the garden fence
she could see from her window.
She planned a film of that too,
with all her friends, one by one,
“Relating to the bench,” she said.
All of us, relating to the bench.
As if we could have her pain.
She comes in every shade of magic -
pigeon pink and green glimmering
teal with an orange shadow,
the grey and creams and red of sandstone,
the heavy bruise colours of Hobart when it rains,
singing with that voice of crystal and syrup.
I don’t know where I got her.
I can't remember when she wasn't there.
I do remember the flowers she carried
tiptoing down a corridor while I watched
from a distance at the shapes and colours
camaraderie might take as it approaches.