The Room Where I Was Witness & The Knowing by T. B. Vittini
The Room Where I Was Witness
is where I stay.
Same air mattress, cheap
tattered bed sheets, bloodied
pillowcases, entry wound
flyscreen, mangled rabbit ear
antenna. Empty space
where there was once a white
hollow core door and three
stainless steel hinges.
The neighbour’s pit bulls
get nice and drunk on cheap
dark liquor I poured over
the fence into their yard
—I watch them stagger
like old pathetic barflies.
The children downstairs
perform quiet heartfelt tributes
to carnage past, present,
emerging. Somewhere the moon
hangs luminous and dead
in its night sky.
The room where I was witness
is where I stay.
The Knowing
We imagine ourselves
immune to the routine order...
but I recall
the eastern dwarf tree frog
floating lifelessly in
the small backyard pool;
the terrible sound it made
hitting the stone pavers hard
when he fell from
my panic-stricken hands.
(I only wished
to briefly marvel at
such a spectacular creature;
say hello
softly pet
his vibrant delicate skin.)
It is always near.
The way the mangled
lorikeet on the road
keeps staring back towards
the abundant branches
without eyes. The way
your heavy skull leans
like a rusted shovel upon
the bus window at dawn.
The way the glass rattles
against your flesh.
It is always near.
“I trashed these poems as I felt they only hinted at what I was attempting to express—ah, the relentless struggle to translate the cacophony of one's psyche. Over time, I’ve come around to ‘The Room Where I Was Witness’, though ‘The Knowing’ I still consider a failure.”
T. B. Vittini (he/him) is a poet and librarian based on Wangal land. His poetry has appeared in Portside Review and Jacaranda Journal.