Catriona Knapman

A Precipitous Belief in Good Things

If only you knew at night the shuffle of feet of the man who walks the streets with a bag of camomile on his head. His feet are bare and he looks only for stars not seen in the Northern Hemisphere. He believes in a lucky dip life: games to be lost, prizes to be won. The past closes like a fist in the dark. Know a friend´s secrets, grab them like a child. Whisper revolution: you: stabbed a sister in the back, they: cry at the betrayal, he: tore out her fingernails, you: left crumpled dollars. We: smile. Yes,

the streets are too short, the music is too loud and the dust cuts your throat so now you cough at night. Perhaps it is better, to line up, to disbelieve, to turn your head like you would a clock, bury yourself into the sun,

which does rise and set like clockwork. Exactly twelve hours of light. Time hits like a bullet, clean the wound. Start again, today, this time better. Go to the government workshops, smile at the coffee cup, believe in the morning and the cellophane wrapped biscuits. If desire does not get you, the mosquitoes will, or the syrupy grasp of the President’s handshake, or a precipitous belief in good things. Add more sugar to your coffee and laugh. Don’t ask those questions.

Salted

I dream of going places where the avocados grow, the cows long, the earth spins quietly, loose and free. There are worlds of heartache waiting along every turn of the road, this is one that chose me. The sky skips, the world jumps, the moon twirls, the waves curl. I did not expect to be used to falling to wiping my eyes, spitting out sand. I have bruises over my skin which I do not remember having. Still, I prefer the ones I can see.