By Zara Meadows
Scene opens - and the catastrophe in me is waiting for the catastrophe in you. Every yellow moon whole poems wander in to wait for their subject, their muse - one time I’ll sit them all down, introduce their words to you. The space between our gliding hands colliding into softness is a crowded waiting room in Paradise; the unsaid stars between our open mouths are eternal clocks ticking, and ticking. Tomorrow I will wait for nothing more than the knowledge you’re alive, will wander in the waiting hours all the while knowing this to be true: that the past version of me lived whole calendars waiting for this future you. Take all my white spaces and give them each an hour - let them be turned over in the sand - for, my daily bread, time is not enamoured with you as I am (nothing can be). But now, now I am waiting for something that is no longer waiting - an earthquake in a suburban town, the catastrophic hand sliding down, the dawning of our rush-hour age, a blot of ink bleeding across this page.