Isabelline,
found your name in a book
between whitewash & chalk
tucked safely
with the memory of grass I strive to characterise.
palm sweat grasps the steering wheel
of my twenty-years-loved car
aircon slow to consume the earth’s torrid breath
for my late afternoon drive home
my home now, at thirty,
twenty minutes from where I grew breast tissue,
feels akin to how that adolescent place began
yet unlike what it became:
my childhood home grew concrete
I grew further out—
closer to the dirt.
earth-squeeze securing my heart
in memories, the parts I would live again
& the parts I’d like repaired
preserved I made it through, I satisfy myself
returning to mend in constant repeat, never accelerating,
recapitulating history
here
where dry grass consumes & spreads
there is an insatiable need to clarify the colour,
as unpleasant as rumours of its namesake’s undergarments
yet safe as my youngest brother’s hug,
reflectively mixing third-hand clothes with wizz fizz discovery
why does the obscurity of my past warm me?
I blame the drought
for the spider webs hanging from the side mirror of this car.
we didn’t wash cars, ourselves, our minds,
drink water, hydrate the garden before nine at night
kiddie pools feel chest-tight.
recalling the surviving grass in off-white
now, Isabelline absorbs this drive
I want to lose cheap jewellery in her &
forget my way home
peel thick, stiff blades into flexible flakes,
paint surface scratches on my ankles,
dream of boys & skittles
or re-order & allow my heart
girls & skittles
reminiscent discomfort jells me.
the blades could
prick my cheeks,
like my husband’s four-day stubble pride,
they’d be nowhere impregnable to sit
but we’d try
for now I commute past
preferring this to the sea
the Great Isabelline Road marks
its vision, anchored
not curated around hills for visceral views
just
neglected allure
like the skin under my heels
air seems athirst simply surveying,
sucking the moisture from my senses
to hydrate my palms
eyes spotting fragments of chalk & pastel tones
I deny them,
I have to believe in Isabelline alone.
Rachel Edmonds is a disabled writer and performer. They’re currently focusing on playwriting but come from a poetry background. Their work has been published in places including Australian Poetry Journal and Voiceworks. Their performance writing has been staged both in Naarm and interstate. They’re currently developing their new play ‘Portaloo’, performing, writing the occasional poem, and playing games with their five year old.