Claire Gaskin has been writing and reading to audiences in Melbourne, Australia, for more than 15 years.





(This Moment of Staring)


(1)

This moment of staring connects up with every other moment of staring.

We wear out the game not the player.

Vines grow up my legs.



The mirror in a younger woman's hand,
she holds it up the sun.
It shatters into leaves.


Glass fish awash in the city's eyes.


Happy to share in the light of others, but not to sleep in the shadows of
talk.

The petal falls, thundering to the ground.

Ribbons and highways tangle in the landscape's hair.


Taste is clear and colourless on the mother's fingertips.

The audience laughs at the lonely performer and the flame wavers in the
applause.

Faces made from recognition.



There is no feeling in the extremities of life when the fingers have been
cut off, the details stolen.



She said, "For a moment I thought I could fly,"
as she landed in the sand.



A deep breath of light,
the tides washing up on the shores of mortality.



(2)

When the mirror gets to know your face

It learns what you want to see.



A praying grandmother walking through water.



She pushes up against me a river my daughter.



My sadness a slow damming.


A flame of flowers

your hands as you hold

your childrens' faces reflected in the still surface.



(3)

I write myself into the cup of poetry.

Autumn laughter throws fruit to death.

Boats leave from submerged piers.

The words on the window are allowing and view.



Autumn laughter throws fruit to death.

Denial comes up against a door and kisses it.

The words on the window are allowing and view.

Each leaf a loss of individuality.



Denial comes up against a door and kisses it.

Locked in a rage of ice.

Each leaf a loss of individuality.

Dark music in my hair.



Locked in a rage of ice.

Falling water separates off into drops, mother become daughters again

Dark music in my hair.

Heavy with water, scented water.



Falling water separates off into drops, mother become daughters again

Salt sorries thrown over horizons of blame.

Heavy with water, scented water.

Each breath draws deeper dredging the depths.



Salt sorries thrown over horizons of blame.

Returning the tail slips from my mouth.

Each breath draws deeper dredging the depths.

Pigeons and priests, rape and rafters.



Returning the tail slips from my mouth.

Wingspan over space perspective.

Pigeons and priests, rape and rafters.

The flower of flesh closes to touch.



Wingspan over space perspective.

Fingers of rose rain on the window of sleep.

The flower of flesh closes to touch.

An ocean of sky and sun washes memory mother of pearl.



Fingers of rose rain on the window of sleep.

Lying in the orchid of arms.

An ocean of sky and sun washes memory mother of pearl.

Sudden seasons.



Lying in a orchid of arms.

The touch of air green on the skin expanding reaching toward....

Sudden seasons.

I write myself into the cup of poetry.



(4)

Like half eaten apples

Naked mothers pose for their well dressed daughters.



Wind in a glass drowning in its own voice.

In the throat of a rose language is strangled.



The limits are lace.

A thousand tiny fingers make beautiful mistakes.



Throw off the hair of heartbreak

to run and challenge the laughter.



A petal from the wall,

A garden wall ancient in recall.