Mould is not moss, Moss needs sunlight to live, The Day After & Room in May by Jessie Jackson
CONTENT WARNING: These poems discuss the 2022 flooding in QLD and NSW.
Mould is not moss, Moss needs sunlight to live.
This mould covers the city in a day or two
a green rug, a soft fluff of stagnancy
a calling card of how deep the flood’s damp
has burrowed it’s way down into the earth
After the flood the ground holds no mercy
No mercy, only spores.
it throws off our balance,
it signals that things haven’t moved the way they should’ve
we’ve stayed too long, loitered a little too much
of course I imbue it with a moral compass
although it has none
of course I imbue it with you
as I’ve always done
How did it grow so quickly? How does it transform so fully?
Is this worth keeping, or will it make us sick if we keep breathing in?
These are all questions I hear in the cleaning aisle of Woolies
They hang in the air, omni-present, coalescing
Between the sold out clove oil and Dettol
Adele plays quietly on the radio
You tell me, you found my favourite book in a box at your house
You say its cover has been laced with black mould and I know,
it is not the type from after but one that started there long ago.
the growth makes me aware of time in an uncomfortable way
The time my body takes up in space, the time it takes me
To look over at something and realise it grows despite the way
I ignore it. While I distract myself the mould
Claims something more and I wonder how far I will leave it until I’m
Unable to get it back again. Until it’s powdery death would stick in
My lungs, take them up. I wonder if that would make me a landlord,
A bad one. I move on. I track the green lace like some kind
Of measure of my own worth. I tell myself
I won’t ever let my timber cabinet be taken over.
But then I do.
You describe the cover of my novel
How the mould looked so beautiful there
I never see it, I don’t ask for it back
I know exactly how it would look in your hands.
The Day After
this left over dust from the flood gets
into every thing, the grooves of our cracked hands. The moisture in your eyes. Up your nose.
Creates a foggy evening in a summer night. Where fluorescent electric eyes peek out from behind
smog laden streets. Caught on CCTV, they notice the red sensor light.
demanded by the waters edge, the coming of the floods tells us the time is up.
lines of muck are measured, drawn up in chalk
our bodies are imagined submerged in past and future tense
all time is ebb and flow of this brown over the city. Begin again
on flood nights flood lights are not enough to see by
on game nights we lock the screen doors
on bin night the city is quiet, suspended
the day after there has been deaths and we know it
in the way something has changed out on the street
where warm green plastic bodies with red tops lean
creating obstacles for our own navigation
how right she is to hold us hostage here
trying to purge us.
Room in May
Morning swells with the scent of warm
Peace Lillies wilting in from of little space heaters
or the rays that deliver 24 degrees on a
Winters day. Inside this cocoon of
silk and blood the aphids feast
a spirit here asphyxiates me, clouding
water steams, there is no more humility
“How to create a tropical humidity
On a budget” the only thing I can care about
is this Ficus from Kmart. But I will kill it.
in 3 months it will be neglected like everything
in my orbit.
Now I know why people want their homes
to be greenhouses, this tedious caress
of anything living, of a hope of growing
caring for something that can’t hurt you
how blissfully distracting it is to nurture
to create the perfect conditions. to be simple
to hope for anything better.
Winter makes you utterly aware of your body
how it curls to you for warmth in the morning
like a small child.
You can find more from Jessie and support her other projects over on Instagram, find her here and here and check out Planchette Press coming soon!
