In the stone town,
Tristana weaves home,
From a sea crusted deck.
Her head presses against the feather,
Night after night.
Her name is better than this stone town deserves.
It's the sea's lap,
Beating her skull,
Dream after dream.
It will not dry.
The draining,
Of foam from the rock grains,
As she works her hands like wrinkled men,
Grind their livers.
She's abandoned on shore like beached boats.
She slumps into family,
Passed down mauve upholstery.
She wants to burn it with kerosene.
Night after night,
With fetching Darryl who,
Earns out a comfortable check every month with a heavy,
Purse to spare for little things like ferry tickets,
On a weekend when he could be watching footie.
Tristana. Her own name like a glimpse,
Of forest on a hill with a curving path.
She is the blood in the rock,
And she wants to be squeezed.
