Junk Store Girl - Rachael Elliott
The back room smells of
Pledge and regret.
Cabinets hang without their
glass
finishes marred
by 2cent stickers
covered in black ink
to mark their worth
The shop has clothes
from 94 different houses
bringing 94 different dusts
and the skin from
countless others
hiding in the seams.
Each garment
is a story that no one will hear
but you can smell them if you
lean close and breathe quietly.
They waft in, bags
tied with knots
bags split
bags flow over
clothes drip from the bins
try to slip their secrets
but people stuff
shove
smash them in.
I bought a denim jacket once
with a stitched on label
and artful rippings.
There was $20 and an empty
plastic baggie in the
inside pocket.
No one asked her story.
I loaded my car with Grandma’s
white woollen jacket
and her basket of silk scarves.
I wanted her stories for myself
but they would not tell.
My lover wears
chatty clothes with
neck stained collars
He makes their stories his own.
He quit me
to live there with them
in the past.
The only heartbeat I hear
is the one that slips beneath
the music
from the shadow box.
My toes are on the edge.
Today I bought
a handmade purple dress
tailored to my form.
I wondered if a mother loved her daughter
and made it herself
I wondered if it had commission.
I wondered if the girl who gave it up
was quit too.
The only thing you ever brought me
was a necklace from the rubbish pit
where you scavenge people’s pasts.
It quit someone to find me
swing from my neck
tangle in my hair
My clothes wear someone else
and hide their stories in me until I am
filled with black lettered clicking.
Hunting - Rachael Elliott
My hands covered you like the dark
stuck fast along the length
of our fingers.
Your feathers fell to one side,
stirred with my breathing.
I felt the map of your wrist
touch mine
lines sinking into each other
like dust into crevices
why can’t I look at you?
I followed your folded future hand
along the dunes
dodging gorse, thistles, brown glass shards
I laid myself down
with them and your kisses
as a covering.
Your eyes reflected the moon.
I couldn’t touch you
as you filled me with the gush of sky
as if it was shot
and laid its head
beside yours
on my shoulder
But I licked the rain from your face.
I was a shell
buried in your foot
and you needed me there
as we staggered
though water that fell and hissed in the sand.
Why don’t you need me now?
As the thunder buries itself in the sky
the rain becomes your hands
but the ground does not move beneath me.
You are gone.
You do not light
the room
with your messages.
You do not call.
You do not spread
a layer of yourself
along the back of the seat
to slide into my hair.
I find flecks of you on my clothing
and in the creases of my mouth
you taste of active yeast
burnt THC
and disappointment
But you are not here.
My body is alone
unpeeled from itself
flapping like a wounded bird.
Shoot me until I am still.
Breathing the memory of you
undoes me like
a shoe
slipped on and off
one time
too many.
Co-dependence - Rachael Elliott
The women are graceful with quills and fear
They dance to keep their feet planted
one in a puddle
one in the cupboard
The women buy each other pink musk bubble bath
cap the bottle with a diamond
They lace themselves behind the wheel
of utilities
lick abandonment
kill cockroaches with blue vapour
laugh with winking teeth
The women are vibrant with stockings and downcast eyes
reaching for the cookie jar
getting handfuls of Persil
the last card instead
They dress as a mannequin missing a hand
in camouflage
leopard print, striped zip
lucky mother forgot that day
once is enough
for hairless weeping
They are coping
They are coping
The men are spiced with cologne and throw away compliments
dark denim empty shelf single jandal
last night’s glitter in their beds
They too, wear their father’s ashes
in silver around their necks
They too, hear the tide washing out
and try to fill it with beer
They are coping
They are coping
The men, stained with orange street lights buy women
to weep in
to cover in pearls and black stretch satin
with arms to wrap their teeth around
shrug off
shun
The men burn the night
against the steel doorframe
with cricket eyes
smoke rising from their fingers
This woman is first aid saline
dripping
she removes her hands
to prevent accidental touching
She is spectacular in last night’s make up
black rings cover the bruise to follow
The woman waits behind an orange pillow
cradled to her chest
to prevent coughing
and tries to forestall leakage
The woman is frivolous with silence
and baking
she downloads rejection
one card at a time
her ipod is smashed
the night paints itself over her eye
The woman breathes nerve electrics
she is memorable in feathers
She takes her lips and nails to bed
pinkblue
She is coping
She is coping
The woman does not murmur lullabies
or accept cut flowers
Her selves fight each other
in a paddling pool mirror
The woman knows what it is to cross last
she knows what it is to bleed, blue shadows
She expects it
She is coping
She is coping
The woman belongs to no one
unmarked by gold
she creaks backward on the swing seat
nauseas
The woman sighs pinecones
and a man burns them for kindling
She sings knitted melodies
he gathers kindling
splits nails
The woman inserts garlic into a lamb’s leg
the man picks the meat from the bone.
She’s alone.
The man sweats through last night’s sheets
The woman pushes scrambled eggs around a plate
she pours vodka and glitter into her mouth
and pants
He’s alone.
The woman sweats through last night’s sheets
he brings her warm towels
drives home
breathing addresses out the window
she re-reads old letters
he salts her dinner
limes her glass
he kisses her beneath her eye
her forehead
her ear
he kisses her hair
billowing through his fingers
she kisses his mouth
his thumb
his fear.
They are burning.
They are burning.
Contributor's Note
Rachael has a Masters in creative writing, and has previously edited Nexus magazine. Her work has appeared in 4th Floor, JAAM, Poetry New Zealand and previous issues of Mayhem. She is currently recovering from an epic case of writer's block in Hamilton.