Meera Atkinson
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  • Home
  • About
  • Books
  • News
  • Word
  • Fiction
    • Necropolis Drive
    • Up-skirt
    • Invisible moon
    • Désincarné / disembodied
  • Non-fiction
    • Friday essay: reclaiming artist-musician Anita Lane from the ‘despised’ label of muse
    • Guardian op-ed
    • Relatively sheltered
    • Read, listen, understand: why non-Indigenous Australians should read First Nations writing
    • The exiled child
  • Poetry
    • Precarious
    • Ant familias
    • Black-eared cuckoo
    • Dust storm
    • Writing a Dear John letter
    • Projection
    • Target
  • Contact
Picture

Projection

(for people in public places)

Before me; flesh and beyond flesh
dreamt up day after day
figments of us, splinters
of light wedged between one shadow world
and another, gently hallucinated.

You shift slightly in your seat.
You make a mental note that you are alive
that these theatrics are ‘reality.’​
You are obliged to act
and to act as if doing so is normal.
You shift slightly in your seat,
remote and self-absorbed,
trying too hard or too little, typical; not
an exact balance, a comforting quantity, and yet
certain qualities produce predictable results.
You are, baked by proximity, food I must eat, the
heavy portion that demands my appetite.

You shift slightly in your seat.
Tension travels your veins, floods your eyes,
blocks the doorway of your ears,
trapping words in your mouth.
You are often afraid.
Admit it; it helps me love you.

You shift slightly in your seat

emotion is illegal.
You look around uncomfortably.
For a moment you are almost here

and beautiful.
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