rebecca law






Rebecca Kylie Law



Preparing a wash load of colours
reminded me diffusionism
is rampant in the small things,

White is a colour, items toward
the ebbing dark are another
scheme altogether. And then
articles in themselves. To remove stains
in the wash, you top up the detergent
with a specialised kind; but it all
adds up: in my wildest dreams
tie-die was an unrealised fear &
the concept of machine washed
clothes was amorphic in the ephemeral
landscape of labour and love,

Oh that the washing machine
was in a nearby shed
and through windows, a warm summer blue.






Rebecca Kylie Law


The rock wall
is a conglomeration
of various stones
differing in colour and shape

And it is also
a coordination
of art and mathematic

If the entire wall
is deconstructed

And the combination
of aesthetics with logic
denies it a necessity
to respond in technique
what, as an entirety,
rock wall would like to say

You might ask
what is it holding up

the answer being
a house. Therefore


And what if then
all the individual rocks
amassed in cement
were studied for their
unique properties

It would be possible








Rebecca Kylie Law


After dad mowed the lawns
the flatness of summer
eked out its last breath
from the pale green
upwards, a shearing
back to original light,
that clarity of mornings
during a heatwave,
the hot, restless sleep
some respite;

and the small awakening,
sense after sense,

a ringing in the ears
pitched to fashions of crickets
controlling sight
like wind,

my eyes browsing
a silver nut on a curtain rod
or the refraction
from a pendant fixture,

the thin sheet pulled up
to my chin flattening warmth
to one plane of softness,

a perfume like leaves
of a peach tree, the only
extension of ostensible nearness:

inside an intangible calm.







Rebecca Kylie Law


Coming back as Phar Lap
was ingenious,

resting with night in your stable,
talking to wind,

eyes soft in your self-knowledge.








Rebecca Kylie Law


It had the tenacity

of a squirrel nut

knocked against a bed end

refusing to halve

until the two hands I held it with

night after night

took it to a friend for advice.


I held it before him, mostly,

although in his hands

it was a marvellous squirrel nut,

the very best.


The first thing, he said,

is to gently gnaw it,

anywhere over the casing

will do; and he demonstrated.


I took it back again

with two hands

and stared at it the whole way home.


Later that night, squirrel nut in hands,

trying to sleep, I put it on the other

side of the bed.


The compulsion to reach its core

no longer mattered, dissipating

in the dream of a landscape

I had never seen, forever present

but black, more black than a heart;


and here, in my Thursday,

the shade to a beautiful aridity.




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