A Poem for Sunday

by Fenella Johnson

I remember how we cried only when we hit the pavement

our cheeks blotchy with shameful blood, the colour of a rusted out car

we rejoiced in the martyrdom of our softness

the faraway magenta hush of traffic and the daring of no helmet, no handlebars-

just the grazing of skin in the mellow copper dust and the thick hum of evening beginning,

the half tempo beat of waiting for the end.

I remember how we skipped and slid through that summer

watching the flies slush themselves against the off-milk white of the garden walls like postcards stuck to a fridge,

the perturbed blue of the sky

our limbs ripening to June brown,

the slow unbothered winding of walking with nowhere to go

the whole word turned momentarily golden.

Sun stoned, sun startled, sun smothered, we dreamt of trickles of harsh crisp water;

every day was like a closing of a door or a paper cut

and everything we ate was squishy or frozen or sweet.

I remember crouching in the overbearing sun soaked night

over the dead cat we had found

its limbs twisted in a petulant vicious question mark

how we knew even though the sour juice of overripe spoiled peaches ran down our chins

that the taste was gritty with ash

how we knew we would never revel in our softness again:

the hot leather gasp of a car door opening somewhere

was a signal to abandon the bikes,

to run home.