Ink & Wine Bottles

“I’m fortunate enough to be me,” says Jo. She’s talking about what the best thing about being a young woman is. She’s smiling, radiating gratitude. Jo and I meet outside Peter Rabbit, a café on Hindley Street that looks like a huge front garden, complete with path leading to the enclosed area. The wood fire’s burning. There are also two rabbits in residence. “You look so cute!” She says as she walks to close the gap between us, arms open to embrace me. Jo is no different to a ‘welcome home’ banner when you’ve been away for months. While we wait for our food – Jo gets the dukkha eggs and a cappuccino, I get carrot cake and a soy latte – we talk about our week so far, mainly focusing on university. Jo asks what my course (journalism) is like in terms of diversity. I tell her minimal, and she says, “Essentially, you guys are going to be the future of the media that we listen to.” “Do you reckon it’s because they [people of colour] feel discouraged? That they feel

I could’ve guessed you were water before I knew your birthday. Just by looking at you I could tell. With our fingers linked, I could feel how free you were. There’s so much of you, I can only get a handful at a time. You’re an ocean, a lake, a river – you soothe.   Your waves of peace ripple out. I’m fire, setting everything ablaze. I look at you and I light up. You lean towards me and I burst into flames. I start claiming and conquering the world. You put it out and remind me to be gentle. You remind me that everything is already ours. Your cheek has a crater in it like the moon and your nose is covered in constellations and your eyes are the colour of the sky. Of course you’re water. So consuming. Always moving. You only let me take a handful of you at a time. I tried grasping at you but it’s no good. You slip through my fingers