New Poetry from Irina Frolova

AUSTRALIA DAY

I stare blankly
at the empty space.

Yoga is closed –
a public holiday I never celebrate,
it makes me scratchy
in my throat.

I am but a grain
of white sand peppered
on this red land,
a single white star
of a southern cross tattooed
over scars and names,
a tiny piece of tabula rasa

after thousands of years of
black history.

WHERE ONCE A FOREST

between the wild and the new
the lakeshore
is contained within
a wall of boulders on one side
a metal ramp on the other
echo ...