Live Encounters Poetry & Writing April 2025
Mama’s flown away with the mockingbirds, poems by Paris Rosemont.
Mama’s flown away with the mockingbirds
‘The mortgage of the dead is known…’
– Carson McCullers (The Mortgaged Heart)
The children know I died weeks ago. This corpse
masquerading as their mother is an imposter.
Noone else has cottoned on yet. But I raised
savvy kids. They know.
The Other smooths their chestnut cowlicks as she
readies them for school, but she does not press
their ham and cheese sandwiches with the novelty
brontosaurus cutter, serving no purpose other
than to spread smiles. There’s no more steam
in this vintage cast iron for the luxury of delight.
I pity these wretched orphans. Imagine
how unsettling it must feel to be sung
to sleep by a ghost who knows
their favourite lullabies and looks so
like someone they once knew.
Hush little babies, don’t you cry
don’t tell anyone that your mama has died.
They reach out to touch her—so convincing is she
that she could almost be real. But their desperate
hands swipe through air. It’s a virtual reality game!
They’re grappling with a hologram. Whirling
with the ethereal weightlessness of a floating
dancer, their mother has brokered a fool’s-
gold escape. She has mortgaged her heart.
The cost of her wings—two tiny souls.
Foot and spouse disease
I used to hate his feet. They were a size larger than standard
-sized shoes in standard shoe shops. I had to source specialty shoes
to house his too-muchness. Hardened heels, dry and cracked as the
Nullabor Plains, with yellowed nails so thick they required the purchase
of extra-large nail clippers. He was a large man; unable to bend down
past his Clausian gut. Thus, the task of taking heavy-duty garden
shears to his gnarled undergrowth fell upon me. The snip snip snip
of nail clippers still sends me into flashbacks of his hooves-for-toes,
clumped together tight as a spring-trap.
-sized shoes in standard shoe shops. I had to source specialty shoes
to house his too-muchness. Hardened heels, dry and cracked as the
Nullabor Plains, with yellowed nails so thick they required the purchase
of extra-large nail clippers. He was a large man; unable to bend down
past his Clausian gut. Thus, the task of taking heavy-duty garden
shears to his gnarled undergrowth fell upon me. The snip snip snip
of nail clippers still sends me into flashbacks of his hooves-for-toes,
clumped together tight as a spring-trap.
The air down there did not get proper ventilation. It became a
swamp of sweat and sludge which, in the moshpit of stinking summers,
housed in the steel-capped sauna of his work boots, would become a
bacterial orgy. I’d slide my slender fingers, lubed with tinea cream,
in between each of his toes. Had I been a foot fetishist, such slippery
fingering may have aroused me. But as it was, it made me want to
retch.
swamp of sweat and sludge which, in the moshpit of stinking summers,
housed in the steel-capped sauna of his work boots, would become a
bacterial orgy. I’d slide my slender fingers, lubed with tinea cream,
in between each of his toes. Had I been a foot fetishist, such slippery
fingering may have aroused me. But as it was, it made me want to
retch.
He was larger than life, this man. A figure looming colossal. Not
as a Heracles might, but as a giant, casting shadows and fear. His tree
-trunk legs would thunder down the hall and I would keep quiet as a
mouse, hoping he would forget I was there. But he would sniff me out,
grind my bones.
as a Heracles might, but as a giant, casting shadows and fear. His tree
-trunk legs would thunder down the hall and I would keep quiet as a
mouse, hoping he would forget I was there. But he would sniff me out,
grind my bones.
One day, a bun appeared in my oven. As it rose, so too did hope.
The giant had clumsy, oafish feet with big toes so very big they were
the size of our newborn’s entire perfectly pink, perfectly formed toes
all combined. My trivial concerns floated away like a helium balloon
released into the sky. Somehow, out of the ash of our bones and keratin,
and the Clag Paste of our liquefied salt, we had produced a thing of
beauty. I’d shower with kisses the porcelain pads of our son’s dainty
feet. He’d wiggle his plump little toes, swollen as cornichons. As he lay
on his back, squealing with delight, his body would curl inward like a
contented armadillo. I finally discovered what love was.
The giant had clumsy, oafish feet with big toes so very big they were
the size of our newborn’s entire perfectly pink, perfectly formed toes
all combined. My trivial concerns floated away like a helium balloon
released into the sky. Somehow, out of the ash of our bones and keratin,
and the Clag Paste of our liquefied salt, we had produced a thing of
beauty. I’d shower with kisses the porcelain pads of our son’s dainty
feet. He’d wiggle his plump little toes, swollen as cornichons. As he lay
on his back, squealing with delight, his body would curl inward like a
contented armadillo. I finally discovered what love was.
© Paris Rosemont
Paris Rosemont is an Asian-Australian poet and author of Banana Girl (2023) and Barefoot Poetess (2025), published by WestWords. Her edgy poetry – distinct in voice – has been widely published and awarded. Banana Girl was shortlisted by the Association for the Study of Australian Literature for the 2024 Mary Gilmore Award. It was also shortlisted for Poetry Book Awards 2024 in Australia, Greece and the UK, and was awarded ‘Distinguished Favorite’ in the NYC Independent Press Award 2025 (USA). Paris has graced stages at events and festivals in almost every state/territory within Australia and internationally.
She may be found at www.parisrosemont.com