Melanie Dooley

One living inhabitant of the Cimitiere de Montmartre proved more interesting than long dead painters, sculptors and other glitterati. I never found out his name, so I will call him ‘the cat man’.

9th century Irish poem

To come across a French Patisserie when you have eaten okra and onions for a month is akin to reaching the Holy Grail.

On the outside I am unblemished – he demands perfection in everything. He is clever – there are so many ways to beat a person without leaving scars for all to see.

My tongue laps out to lick and taste.
I place you gently in my mouth.

He caught her scent so sweet, so fresh.
He caught her scent so sweet.

The monster in him stirred, and reared.
The monster in him stirred.

The taxi moves forward, following the edges of the large, near-empty car park towards the only other car there.

She touches my face with a shaking hand and then we hug. I start to cry and I am a bit surprised to see that mum is not crying.

i glow
a beacon
for you to
moor against.

Distant sounds
A lull and lap
Crunch, crash slap
Splash, laugh, run.

like a silver hole
in the sky
passage
to another place

You are the Nureyev of the sushi knife
A maestro conducting his orchestra.

waft of mushroom
heavy earth scent
velvety brown fungus

tongue flickers
like eyelids
closed to the sun

I soon forgot about the real horse, as equestrian Barbie cantered around the lounge room. She needed her horse to escape the Bionic Man doll my brother got from Santa.

the fragile body
upon her bed
life all but gone

tongues salivate as
the scent permeates
each room

I was just looking out the window from my office to the vacant lot next door. And I saw the trees. It got me wondering about where else they’d rather be…