A sphere-like mess
of tangled betrayal lies at the base
of my spine.
A collation of mistrust and misdeeds,
those fine strands of spinifex
that bind together so easily
It drops roots like anchors.
Shoots extend up my spine.
Again, I cut them back
as they grow into my cranium.
toxic spills, anti-fertiliser pills,
growth retardant and boundary stakes
but now I’ve decided to stop
and just stare at it…
before one day grabbing
a gardening fork and
wrestling that sucker up by its roots.
materials: root-ball from a climbing vine, chopped and wrestled from the earth by the poet’s hands
dimensions: H: 40cm W:75cm D: 60cm