Nikau and Tasman Street
It has been enough years now
that my memories of them are the same
as the way ambrosia gets after it has sat a while,
berry juice seeping out into thick cream.
Nothing is as sharp.
Sometimes,
out of nowhere, I come across the centre of a whole berry still intact.
I think of them suddenly, in the shower as steam billows up in waves
against the hollowed out air of the cold day.
I think of pineapple, playgrounds, the moon,
packets and packets of biscuits, sweet vanilla soy milk in our tea,
steamy kitchens, candle wax,
tucking my sock-covered feet under me and huddling together on couches
as drafts came through the door,
the smell of oil paint,
oil paint smudges on carpet, on arms, walls,
and then walking briskly out into the open,
moonlit clouds speeding their way through the sky above,
walking through the night holding the glow of our friendship.
I think of them, might always be inspired by them,
these art school ghosts,
as they float their way into the rest of the world.
Briana Jamieson, Salty 2, February 2018