Untitled, or Quaesivi - D.A. Taylor

I watched Dresden burn.
If only you were among the ashes.

I’d hoped to follow your dance steps
through an old fool’s
dog-eared diary.

Inches away from death
and still
I can’t find your fingertips.

There are consonants 
on the table
and a bottle of vowels 
in the fridge.

I’m a pillar of salt.

Come home.

Bounty - D.A. Taylor

Red strawberries
bursting on the palate.
The bloom
of lovers’ eyes.
Earth
in transit.
Lips
on oak.
Laughter
toppling silence.
Take a moment
but only one.

Write to Save - D.A. Taylor

Write to save your father’s black whiskers left on the high tide of the bathroom sink.
Write to save droplets of orange oil suspended in November sunlight.
Write to save your last breath of evening air in his doorway.
Write to save an impression of lace on her upper thigh.
Write to save the Mataī shavings your grandfather brushes from the bench.
Write to save the pomegranate juice on her lips from falling to the sand.
Write to save your grandmother forgetting your name.
Write to save the kisses he gives the lip of his coffee cup.
Write to save her name and number scrawled on the back of a cigarette packet.
Write to save your first orgasm.
Write to save the last time your daughter leaves scalding tears on your collarbone.
Write to save yourself from the water as it plunges down the drain.

Contributor's Note

D.A. Taylor plays the ukulele and bakes for catharsis. He completed his English degree at Waikato, specialising in Writing Studies.

 

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