Shirley Lu is a poet from Sydney, New South Wales. Her work has appeared in Freckled Magazine, Thistle Magazine, A Hundred Gourds, and elsewhere. She is interested in and inspired by the origins of words, the gap between a source and its translation(s), and sunlight.
Night, wayward. Dreams weave in and out of thunderous minds,
tidal and green. We sway in our sleep. Fruit bats inch towards
the Tropic of Capricorn, towards swirling air. Cats slink, purr, pounce
like clouds. Feet slide along bedsheets covered with imaginary dots
marking base camps. A murmur in the dark. A line of light east of here,
humming. A dull beeping at Bb. Feet fall to bamboo floorboards, heavy
with smog and sunflower seeds. Cats run back to their owners,
who are distracted by coffee makers. Fruit bats hang in casuarina forests.
Day, emergent. We burst out of ourselves like Buddha’s Hands.