by Regan Chern
Bury the rats,
Grey mould fur,
And bent backs.
You stay on the porch,
Hold back the kids.
I, returning earth,
Hold our sickness;
Our son, brother, and his mistress,
All with the same inheritance,
Interred over this year.
Ruined thoughts of God,
Faith in ‘if he takes one,
He won’t take another,’ diminished.
Cleared this place of great oaks,
In their place, smeared and stacked bricks,
And other wishes.
Hearth spins new flames,
We saved by the gain of same old same.
But Winter’s crows,
How they encroach,
To summer, abbreviated.
Little food, little bone.
Children cold on patio,
You alone, with me in hole.
A year, a quiet home.
To dirt, our quiet home.
Author Bio:
Regan is a Brisbane/Meanjin-based writer in the final semester of his Bachelor of Fine Arts (Creative Writing) degree. You can find his work published in ScratchThat magazine, encompassing everything from poetry, memoir, fiction, audiobooks, and artworks. He is now a member of ScratchThat’s Editorial Board. He also tutors children from pre-Kindergarten up to Year 12. When he is not working, you will most likely find him with his two cats or hiding behind a mountain of plates from his favourite (and secret) sushi joint.
If you’d like to get into contact with him, please do so through his Instagram page @regancchern. He has also started a book club named the Lemon Lime Readers (@lemonlimereaders), which is currently seeking new members… please…