Is There Anything On Me That Doesn’t Speak?

Joan of Arc follows me around Australia
I hear her voice in my head
And catch bits of nature in my mouth:
Rotting leaves, bird shit, mud, flood water
I can smell what's there on the inside
Oslo, March: Quiet

Words enter me from everywhere
In Brisbane in December it was rain
The rain was still rain
We couldn't hide from it
I sought comfort between supermarket shelves and in cafes
But the water followed us everywhere
The water followed us everywhere

And we put on the fan in the hotel room
And it sounded like a shower
Possessed, my leather shoes crumbled
Fabrics unravelled around our bodies
My skin breathed in and out
I woke in the night to hear our pores heave
I was a thousand little mouths, a thousand baby birds
Eggs hatching, skin breaking

I ran my hands over my body to hush them
I cut my finger nails and cut off their beaks
Is there anything on me that doesn't speak?
Is there anything on me that doesn't speak?

One night I spat in my sleep during the daytime
I kept everything in, smoking cigarettes to dry
A struggle inhaling in your honour
My body is an effigy, a hearth of some kind
I reach for the lighter

Flames rise and press against my lips
When I speak I hear your voice and catch
Twigs and pieces of coal in my mouth
When I speak I catch your disease