Isa Velasquez
OLGA JEAN SAKARIASSEN
we noticed your home empty
your neighbour, our abuelita
meanwhile had pearls adorning her neck
collected beach relics lacing her shoulders
lichen had grown over your stone,
branches blocked your name
we share our gifts with you
we always bring something extra for Olga,
the forgotten woman
other graves bloom with roses, lilies, and peonies
yours holds bark and dead gumtree leaves fallen from the canopy above
“Always Remembered”
irony at its finest
how often are you visited I wonder?
is the day about you or are you an errand?
an asterisk written in blue biro
a reminder at the bottom of a grocery list
*visit mum
GRIEVING A STRANGER
six feet under two years before I was born
I just missed her
my brother tells me wonderful stories
surprise toys, ice-cream for breakfast
twenty-four years old, a grown man
he still sleeps with the cobija she gave to him as a child
everyone knows his special blanket
he gets angry when mama washes it
he’s afraid it will lose its long-gone scent
her flowery smell
mama says I got her possum eyes
mama says I hold myself like her
soft, feminine, graceful
maybe that’s why I wear sundresses
pointed heels, delicate rosaries, and pink lips
mama says I got her quiet
mama says I am kind like her
maybe that’s why I speak so sweetly,
pretty words, gentle gestures, a loving heart
tears leaking under my covers
I create my own ocean in the darkness
she holds me as I cry over someone I’ve never met
Author: Isa Velasquez is an aspiring poet, currently studying at QUT. She doesn’t really know what she’s doing but who does?
Editors: David Farr and Grace Harvey