Puzzle hearted and in pieces
I am scattered and entangled.
They found my nose on a cathedral spire,
my left arm on the back of a bus
in sky-sodden Dublin.
The outside world was an impressionist blur
through the rainwashed glass.
I was part-swallowed by a hapless fish
swimming silvered in the Hunter River.
When they caught it and split its belly
my ear spilled out red and glistening among the guts.
The pelicans swooped and fought.
My elbow was caught in a quandong tree in the deep desert.
Carried back in a basket full of plump red fruits destined for jam
it swung on the life-creased arm of a dusk-scented woman.
A heron fetched my index fingers both
from where they swept softly on the surface of the ocean
(somewhere near New Zealand, I think?)
They stitched and welded and carved and hammered,
reforged me a body of windswept, wandering parts
and finally
I appeared whole (on the surface)
missing only a tiny piece of my puzzled heart.
Originally published in Concrete Queers 7: Speculative Fiction
Hester J. Rook | they/them
Hester J. Rook is a Rhysling Award and Australian Shadows Award shortlisted poet and co-editor of Twisted Moon Magazine. They are often found salt-scrunched on beaches, reading arcane tales and losing the moon in mugs of tea. Find Hester on Twitter @hesterjrook and read more poems and fiction at hesterjrook.com.
Concrete Queers 