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Corey Wakeling
Corey Wakeling lives in Melbourne. His poetry and reviews have appeared in numerous Australian and international journals, anthologies, and newspapers, with new work appearing in Southerly, Overland, Shampoo, E-ratio, foam:e, Famous Reporter, Handsome Journal, Jacket2, Cordite, and Best Australian Poems 2011. He is a PhD candidate at the University of Melbourne, and reviews editor of poetry journal Rabbit.
Published in The Diamond and the Thief 22

There are Deserts in the Human
By Corey Wakeling

These days, days we’ve been rent
whilst your hands have been festooned to
the sentry, eyes
scouring the inner integument, the verso
of scutes, the planetarium.
My hands are in your mouth and you
are wanting more and I’m wondering
how to give you more than I can give,
planetarium or satellite variable.
That matador and his swollen groin.
There are humans in the desert.
There are deserts in the human, the groin
of the Snowy Mountains like
the prodigal philosopher’s festoon,
which is a buggy or dinghy, whichever inland sea
was chosen for scientific despondency.
That variable of you in the shed with the bear trap,
that variable of you in the shed with the secateurs,
that variable of you in recline on a welder’s bench
still animated as solder.
That would be farfetched,
or at least of the great false augur, Cleopatra,
whose viper bite remains our only sacrifice,
quanta, laneway possum
dashing its own brains beyond supervision like
a forklift. This means the hill cadenza overlooking
baulks and dazzles as a master, the shed then
a groin, swollen brown with a clinamen
of rainbows interpenetrating the surface, the home
to which all the regional possums call home
and yet no student has fallen stricken on or succumbed
to, though they stare into the ashen murk sometimes
trying to truly see their image in the wetlands of needles.
The hill is a master overlooking a shed,
the tourist we killed had walked past it
like a tourist or an olive branch,
and if only reticulation could confirm it, replacing
the breathlessness of bodice on the swelling landmass.
The hill is neither pitch nor estate, the hill bears
barrenness from recent tilling though the green
is ambitious. Consider the absence
of the gargantuan terrier.