Competition

Third Prize

Defining the Navicular
by Cate Bailey

she has fine, lithe hands,
flimsy fingers and precisely filed nails
but on his slender hips
hang masculine trousers

in the hush and dim
I can trace the outline of a white singlet
through her shirt
but cannot project
the obtuse margins of breasts

her voice is husky
as he speaks into the dictaphone
stopping
and starting again
she says he needs to make a decision
a finding
a commitment to something

she tosses the x-ray envelope behind the computer
and he shuffles through papers
searching for a patient history
she rubs his smooth brow
he rests her angled jaw on his soft palms
she asks me if i know where the navicular is
i rub a prominence on the top of my foot

then he says she needs to go to the bathroom
and in one legato movement
his willowy figure has slipped out of the room

for a moment i consider following her
to see which toilet he goes into
and i scold myself
for my need to quantify and dissect:
to seek a single diagnosis
as if these conditions:
she and he
are mutually exclusive:
as if the two cannot coexist
in one beautiful creation

Highly Commended

In the Shed (A Pantoum)
by Victoria McGrath

The heady scent of motherhood and infants lost to time:
and I store my sadness in the shed out back,
interred deep inside a battered cardboard box,
carefully folded in between layers of recall.

And I store my sadness in the shed out back
behind an old glass jar of Grandpa's bibs and bobs,
carefully folded in between layers of recall
and set down like ancient sediment. He's buried there

behind an old glass jar of Grandpa's bibs and bobs,
and I unfold and fold his dimples which are wrinkled
and set down like ancient sediment. He's buried there
in mothballs, tissue paper, plastic bag. My fingers sift

and I unfold and fold his dimples which are wrinkled
in a knitted bonnet, soft as baby down, but yellowing
in mothballs, tissue paper, plastic bag. My fingers sift.
I try to realise his substance, the sense of flesh

in a knitted bonnet, soft as baby down, but yellowing,
embroidered with the silk of longing, the felt of old regret.
I try to realise his substance, the sense of flesh:
a tooth, his first-cut curls, a stained and mildewed jacket

embroidered with the silk of longing, the felt of old regret.
He is not here. And this is all I have: the sadness,
a tooth, his first-cut curls, a stained and mildewed jacket
and memories. I try to breathe him in. I hear my heart

he is not here, and this is all I have - the sadness.
I inhale the emptiness that hides in dusty corners
and memories. I try to breathe him in. I hear my heart,
and from the door the drone of lilac gossiping.

I inhale the emptiness that hides in dusty corners
interred deep inside a battered cardboard box.
And from the door the drone of lilac gossiping,
the heady scent of motherhood and infants lost to time.