My husband is in the war. The war is in my husband
by and published in Edition Eight of Pomegranate
I had violets in my hair but I wanted you instead
to upset my plot with purple knots,
to grow like a bruise exudes when slept
upon. Dead royals constellate
in the rafters of this room;
their cut photographs outnumber
black-haired you. I
saw your prince in the echo of the stable,
anchored to the steep frost,
a blue gum for his spine.
O my
leviathan, what is this world we won with ice?
Dawn cremates the freesias
for blooming too soon.
Cattle thaw in the barn,
a radiator, if you don’t look close.
Seeing has come early this year,
a lame groomsman shakes out the door chimes.
Your absence turns to soot in my eyes.
Ainslee Meredith
Ainslee Meredith (20) lives in a tiny house in Melbourne with two cats and two humans. Her poetry has previously appeared in Voiceworks, stop drop and roll, Gloom Cupboard, a handful of stones, and Farrago, the University of Melbourne student paper.