Poetry from Sarah Wallis
Little white house of fear, locked in your spiral cell
told to push at waves beyond
your patient ferry,
see the wall crash, and far away
the human concern keeps on at one chance
in a hundred, it keeps us on edge wonder-daring
a sky dive at death in an ocean rinsed shirt,
or a chilli pepper dress
a simple dance at nightmare, glass half empty
and the egg timer losing
hard won volcanic black sand.
Little house of hope, where egg before chicken
they count in, count out
inmates cluck at the air, strut surety, no fox here.
One little white wine spritzer (the tempting hostess)
and a fall so far
after years of abstinence
one dream voice on the side of fallen angels
the true Captain left to go down with the ship.
Little house of nerves bundled warm at skullback
under a long sail of hair,
dressed in ponytail, bun,
toupee concealing such vanity,
when the pattern is genetic
like the amygdala’s strength to withstand
the buffets of addiction.