Daniel Ward

Two Poems
Daniel Ward

when nothing is distant

leaves at your mother’s house is
dancing
or a school of fish
and peach and green
like spring
but cold beach air
i made you sad
this morning
and
airport coffee always tastes the same
a mother in a plastic sleeve
with and in the ticket a
family kilt
a folded plastic folder
grey, brown
foggy water
blue brown
taup
and many folds
even aqua at points of you
of which i know many
i go to your art show
because i love you but
have a hard time saying this

we ate the fish

i found myself thinking about your garden, and the beer we drank in it
the video of our bodies and their stake of wooden red and blue
was this the moment i thought i had been my most woman
on your parent’s couch, in the thick smoke and meat and wet oil of the air
your body reminded me of lemon butter and fish
folding back of humid pink flesh
did you know that i had loved to bend your liquid
as if it were my own
and thought on how i could wear it on top of my own

it is nine pm and we are sitting in your yard where a body once lay between us
the thick smoke now a breeze
the wet oil vinegar
it is autumn
and it was summer when your dog died, and we ate the fish

on the back of an unfolded wire mattress i had discovered
what one woman’s body might look like
and i touch my own years later
and learn how another might be formed
or had somehow already formed

did you know that sometimes i had hoped you might have a dick
and that you might fuck me
we spoke about dildos as capitalism
and you made sticky rice


daniel ward is a poet and musician currently living in Naarm (Melbourne). they explore concepts of motivation, love, sex, domesticity, care, rebellion and faggotry. they are currently working on a self-published work titled everybody is a faggot.