We watch them, evening coffees miraculously
clasped, still. They walk, not shamble, just
as normal, thirty to a mass, dressed
for work. When they gaze upon us, stock
still on our porches, house timber wholly ecosystem
of termites, petitioning the moon
to reappear each night, holding time, they look
only, stitched. You imagine they’re wearing
make-up. They are, but not to convey
anything. This is only how they present. You observe
your gran moving, a body rent, slightly
faster than she used to. A few absent-mindedly
pushing her along, a few fingers on her
elbow, her spine. The moon is clearer than any leaf
in the street-puddles, reaching to storm-drains
along the curbs: you could map
each lunar volcano, each maria containing still
water— you picture— the topography
of empty basins. The stragglers walk down the curb
into the bush. You’re listening to the song
“Hebrews 11:40” by acclaimed dad-rock band
The Mountain Goats, sing “itches hiding in
the brambles”, you mishear. You picture
the word “witch” detaching themselves from their
referent, growing wings, mandibles, a departure of eyes
you watch them disassemble, returning
wherever they came— still— in the meteoric air.

About the author:

josie/jocelyn Suzanne is a freelance writer/would be translator. Their work has appeared in The Suburban Review, Rabbit journal, Australian Poetry Journal and Overland, among others. In 2021 they were one of the recipients of the Ultimo Prize for poetry and the Harri Jones memorial prize. They are a genderqueer transfemme. They live on unceded Wurundjeri land.

Photo by Tristen Lee on Unsplash.