Last week was the Sydney Writers’ Festival and I spent too much time around people who muck about with words for a living. So I hope you’ll forgive me for a flight of poetic fancy I have taken today. Here is a poem, in honour of the crisp autumn weather and the deep love I have for my children and the disgusting state of my handbag. I present it with apology to ee cummings, whose verses I have adapted.
i carry your snot with me (i carry it in my bag) i am never without it (anywhere i go you go, my snotfaced dear; and whatever is blown into a tissue goes only in my bag, my darling) i fear there are no bins (for I am your bin, my sweet) I want to not litter (for beautiful this is our world, my true) and it’s i am where you have always put your snot and wherever your snot will always go is me here is the deepest secret nobody knows (here is a scrunched up dirty tissue and sometimes even a clean tissue and here in my bag; which is filthier than soul can hope or mind can hide) and this is the wonder that keeps sticking to my hand I carry your snot (i carry it in my bag)
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