By Rachel White
I down a lukewarm latte with Aleve. The harsh sun doesn’t quite melt hard frost on the platform. Olivia scampers down stairs—wet hair, backpack shoulder-slung—just as the train slows into the station. I cross off her name, pass her a ticket. Steadied with a grab handle, I watch the world rush backwards through the carriage window. My mental list clipped by Jacob’s proclamation Miss. This is the furthest I’ve ever been from home! At the gallery, Monet, Seurat, Matisse. Matthew’s gaze intent on Impression, Sunrise. The brushstrokes could almost touch his cheeks. His hiked sleeves expose cuts on his arms. I make no comment. The world is already so full of words. We pause at abstracted guitars and nudes. Red, yellow, blue. Dora Maar’s nail biting interrupted by What’s a Picasso worth, Miss? On the lawn, lunchtime shadows are fluid—laughing, like Sonja’s voice, rattling horse talk: a new saddle, competitions,ribbons. Under puffed clouds that float in no particular hurry, Luis places a fluffy caterpillar on my hand. We amble back to St. James station; cockatoos call—take flight over the towering plane trees. Reflected in high-rise glass and pooled fountain water, the cerulean sky is everywhere.
Rachel White (she/her) is an American-born poet and artist who lives and works on Kaurna land in South Australia. Her poetry has been featured in Kissing Dynamite and placed highly commended in the 2022 Woorilla Poetry Prize. Her work also appears or is forthcoming in Amethyst Review, Anti-Heroin Chic and Third Wednesday Magazine.
