Knife on a Plate

Ion Corcos

You are a letter with a stick of fire,
seaweed on the beach, a tin roof.
I watch you talk, your stern finger,
the curl of your mouth.

You are a knife on a plate’s edge,
the snow on a dead cat. Tomatoes
grow in the stomach of a bird, onions
in the wolf; you are a star,

the darkness, the stealth of winter.
I talk to you; you throw candles,
a figurine of an old man smoking a pipe.

You are the three levels of stairs
I climb to my apartment. I read a book,
listen to crabs on a beach scuttle
as the tide comes in; eat baklava.

The book describes a rocky shore;
nothing in it helps me talk to you.
You hurl sand at me, empty bottles.
A dog in the park has a gash on its side.

You tell me not to call, not to speak
your words back to you. I eat soup
and a piece of stale bread for dinner,
walk to the market for potatoes.

You are salt on a snail, flour in a bowl.
A red sky. At night, the frogs are silent,
and the streetlights are off.

I hear footsteps, the cry of a hooded crow.
You are the key to the door,
the hand that takes away the torchlight,
throws it in the swamp.

Ion Corcos was born in Sydney, Australia in 1969. He has been published in Cordite, Meanjin, Westerly, Plumwood Mountain, Wild Court, Southword, riddlebird, and other journals. Ion is a nature lover and a supporter of animal rights. He is the author of A Spoon of Honey (Flutter Press, 2018).