Cellar
and now I can’t wait to get off the phone so my voice doesn’t betray me
I say quickly I need to see to a pot overboiling, and hang up
burst in tears.
The pot was turned down 20 minutes ago.
We’re talking about someone who doesn’t matter to me
who’s titles of woman in leadership Australian of the year, young entrepreneur
mean nothing to me, not really.
and do I think she has tears and struggles of her own?
Of course.
But I feel so rudderless, like I have turned away from those trophies
those falsehoods, those labels, that commit rough violences which separate ‘talent’ from everyone else
but turned into what is not a sunny rainbowed kitten bouncing serenity
but a black murk of darkness
like going into a cellar in an old house
suddenly and immediately cold, and damp, and a little terrifying
but thrilling too.
Most days, I prefer my cellar
know it is leading subterraneously to other hidden rooms of my heart
know it is absolutely a path I have to follow
know its twists are both delightful
and each step is painfully slow
— you can’t see beyond the black dark with only a candle.
But today I feel like my candle went out.
It’s still in my hand, I can feel the weight of it
but until I find my match
I am floors beneath the hum of noise in the rooms above
feeling my way in the dark.
