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Revisiting her childhood in all its innocence and strife, she finds poems – and an essay – whistling their secret, familiar tunes.
“Are we all just atoms of knowing and unknowing, songs and stories and silences circling and spiralling through the body, blood marked by time’s passing? Grazed knees. The lurid palm-trees of a fever-dream, leaves beating against bedroom windows like giant Chinese fans.”
Revisiting her childhood in all its innocence and strife, she finds poems – and an essay – whistling their secret, familiar tunes.
“Are we all just atoms of knowing and unknowing, songs and stories and silences circling and spiralling through the body, blood marked by time’s passing? Grazed knees. The lurid palm-trees of a fever-dream, leaves beating against bedroom windows like giant Chinese fans.”