BRAY MATTHESON AUTHOR

POEM CONTENTS

What Sleep Looks Like
The Hills of Africa
El Palmar
Midnight Madness
Colonised Skies
Twelve Years
Fishlets in the River
An Italian Plumber
Glued Together by Morning Breath
At Night I Dream
The Cow Under the Olive
New Year’s Day 1:33pm
Making Tea
Chainsaws by My Window
King Beaver
Six Nights Away

⸻

What Sleep Looks Like

When I ask
if you’re still watching,
because I can’t watch alone,

you pry your eyes open
to let me finish our show
and make a waking face.

I see your eyes,
and they are still sleeping.

I can see what sleep looks like
beneath the eyelids,

and now I know
sleep is the color of chestnuts
kissed by the fire.

And I can tell you—
it’s beautiful.

⸻

The Hills of Africa

Sitting on my surfboard,
waiting for the sets,

the smaller waves
roll past
in shades of green and marine blue,
causing me to bob
up and down
amongst the gulls—

them waiting
for fish
to catch,

me waiting for waves
to catch,

so together we wait
for our catch

and gaze across
the Strait of Gibraltar
at the hills of Africa,

and we see the windows
in that distant land
sparkling in the sun.

Then one spots a fishlet
inside an oncoming wave.

They all flap their wings,
and I lay on my board
and flap my arms,

and I ride the wave
as they fly around me,
and they dive for the fish
that breach the water,
making their squawks,

and I’m hooting
as I surf the wall

all the way
to the shore.

Then I turn around
and paddle back out
and sit on my board.

The gulls above
make their water landings,
and we look at
each other,

and we gaze
out
across the Strait of Gibraltar
at the hills of Africa.

⸻

El Palmar

The reddened orb,
the blushing sun,
the water coral,
the breeze warm.

The surfboard glides
across the wave.

The sun goes down.
The surfers clap.

One shouts: “Another day,”
in Spanish.

My toes on the nose
as I ride towards
the beach,

my hands behind my back
like I don’t care
that this moment
may just be
one of the very
nicest things
I’ll ever experience.

⸻

Midnight Madness

I drank a cup
of chamomile
tea
before bed.
I heard it was
a good way to be admitted
into the realms of sleep,
carried away on pillows
by fattened cupids
or some other
lovely creatures.

But
some mad man decided to put
caffeine
in this particular brand,

so here I am,
1:38 a.m.,
and I’m staring at the roof,
thinking about how many others are out there
right now
staring at the roof
without sleep,
becoming as mad as him.

⸻

Colonised Skies

Sometimes I stare out the window
at the stars—
so silver
and vast.

It makes me glad
I no longer live in the city.
You can’t see them in the city.

Like bison, and mountains, and forests—
none of that in the city.

Just buildings so high they block the stars.

Tonight was a clear night,
so I went to the window.

And there they were—
the stars.

One of them moved
across the sky,
blinking.

Then another,
and another.

I went back to the lounge room
and back to the TV,

because there were no stars to look at tonight,
only satellites.

⸻

Twelve Years

I stand at the exact
place we met
twelve years ago
and hope that
some kind of
cosmic force
bumps me back
and lets me live
those twelve years
all
over again
with you.

⸻

Fishlets in the River

I see them flickering,
tiny silver bullets,
the bane of
water werewolves,
if there even are such
things.

Maybe they are,
and they mate
with the mermaids,
spitting their offspring
down the
rivers and fjords—
silver fishels
to grow up
and get netted,
battered,
and fried.

⸻

An Italian Plumber

A pipe burst in our yard the other day,
sending turds drifting through the garden
like spy submarines.

Against my wallet’s better judgment,
I called a plumber.

He arrived in a truck.
Said his other car’s a Porsche.

He went in,
got up to his elbows
in shit.

I went inside
and, after a while,
dared a peek through the window.

After a thousand dollars and some time,
he came to the door
with a body in his arms.

It was small—
smaller than a baby,
small enough to have lodged
in our pipe.

He laid it on the kitchen bench.
My wife pinched her nose.

It wore little blue overalls
and a little red cap.
Its flesh had begun to rot,
showing slivers of bone.

“That’s your problem,”
said the plumber.

“What is it?” I asked.

He shrugged his turd-wrangling shoulders.

“Super Mario.”

⸻

Glued Together by Morning Breath

We didn’t argue
much
or fight
ever.

We didn’t sulk
around
or mope.

We didn’t sleep
apart,
ever.

There
was always
a leg or an
arm
or bad breath
linking us
together.

⸻

At Night I Dream

At night, when they sleep,
mice may dream of cheese.
A hawk may dream of mice,
and dogs dream of bones.

Maybe apes dream of lice.
A gardener may dream of jasmine
and its fragrance in the night.

But me—
I dream of Sydney,
and that makes me sleep all right.

⸻

The Cow Under the Olive

In Andalusia
they have these cows
by the beach,
and they are
brown—
almost red—

and they graze about
and scratch and eat
like cows do.

And they stand around
in fields
of yellow clover
and bathe in
the company
of each other
and the sun
and the little birds
that land on their backs.

And as I was riding past,
I saw this one cow,
as bony as a branch,
walk under a tree
by itself
and lay down
to get some cool shade
or
die.

⸻

New Year’s Day 1:44pm

I lie on my back
in bed,
and you are sleeping
on my chest,

making my arm wet
with your saliva.

I try to read,
but you snore,
so I wait.

It’s 1:44 p.m.,
New Year’s Day,
and I wait
for your eyes to open.

They are beautiful,
like twin sunrises.

⸻

Making Tea

You shift around the kitchen,
dragging your ugg boots
across the linoleum kitchen tiles,

a hand on your hip.

Your hair—
a tangle of reeds.

You stare at the kettle
in thought,
always deep.

What is happening
in that head of yours?

⸻

Chainsaws by My Window

I hear those metal teeth
tearing bark and limbs,

making way for a new train
that will visit the town.

But I don’t care about that—
I just want to sleep.

It’s 3 a.m. outside my window,
and I still hear those metal teeth,
those two-stroke engines.

They keep me awake
to make way for something
that will take my sleep forever.

⸻

King Beaver

A fat rodent guards America—
freshly shaved,
stuffed into a blue suit,
white shirt, red tie.

It loves to build walls.
Maybe it’s a beaver.

⸻

Six Nights Away

Six nights away
after
four thousand
nights together.

And I sleep on
a couch,
banished there
by younger strangers
who don’t like snorers,

so I try to sleep,
but they keep
buzzing about
the living room
like gannets.

It is only when
they go to bed
that I can sleep.

So I lie there,
pretending,
cursing myself
for being polite
and apologetic
of my snoring.

When at home
with you
and my snoring
becomes tiresome,
you just roll
me over,

and I can rest
and sleep happily,
not lie there
on a wooden sofa
thinking which type
of beast
feeds on the bones
of gannets
at the window.