Shoes not fit for running
hair long for a father’s pleasure
girls made
into the first coins ever cast.
Duties given
hearth the tie
the fearful compulsion
the womb drives.
Despite the challenges
the joy is there
indomitable spirit
will not be denied.
Sisters rise above
the equal lie
find the space to be
their own choices.
The window to the backyard
behind
seated on father’s lap surrounded by
people
chairs and the laminated table
littered
with bottles, glasses, ashtrays;
cigarettes’ silent howls to the moon,
I watch those howls rising
towards the ceiling.
Children and adults
alike litter the room
music, laughter, a joke.
Behind me the stars watch
and signal their stories;
in memory the sky
is sunshine
or clear starshine all the way the centre of the milky way
sometimes rain
but warm and sweet
like coming home to mother’s hug and kiss.
Standing on the banks of the Barwon
wind off the water
into our faces
theirs freckled, mine tanned;
I was always the black sheep
to their red-haired Viking.
They fish
I play
flinging a neighbour’s borrowed rod
back and forth
until
the tip slips free and sails
into the water, a gulp
and it descends beneath.
I know there will be words
even a clip around the ear
but for a moment
that flung tip
caught my heart as well as a hand
catching bright Excalibur.
Sunday afternoon
chairs dragged
the stern warning to lift,
grandfather using his one utensil,
his useless arm flopped in front of his plate,
voices –
with this family
it is always voices.
Ten of us prepared,
speak across, beside, beneath
wait for the food to arrive
companionship devoured,
a full belly.
Deep-green bathers
lily-white legs
the father never drawn to water
instead found Larger the way
to return to the sea.
In time
you are there.
In time
your hand holding mine.
The smile you shared
in time
is there still
though it moves quick
like a bird flinging
into tomorrow, a spark
then gone in time.
Your voice is in my name.
Your voice is the path back
to the backyard and songs sung
while the world spun
into yesterday’s tomorrow.
Always I come back,
like the albatross after
crossing the ocean’s might,
to your smile
the bright delight; a magpie’s song
that brought sunshine and a breeze –
promising sunrise after each sunset.
washing strung in the sun
your hair then
curly and long, it covers your eyes
but the sheets whisper
your song
even if, as the sheets dried,
the sun stole your years.
We, returned from shopping,
sit at the laminated table.
No one else home
mother mine in time
as we ping shelled peas into a saucepan.
Too soon I hear
the squeak of the side gate
and catch mother’s eyes
our hands paused
treasuring a moment
lost as the backdoor opens and slams shut.
School bags hit the floor –
fragments like flies in resin,
amber beads linking her and me
even as events forever separate us.
mother’s young lips –
not yet saddened by years
that hang like overbearing peaches
on branches that have sagged
under the weight of support –
pursed, paused between words,
ready for the red lip-shtik;
I’m five, stand behind, watch
her watching herself
through the looking glass on a dressing table
years later I painted white.
Behind us
dad’s impatient voice
like time’s working of the dresser’s veneer
demanded in a tone
that neither of us ever denied
for too long; our ability
to time the length defined us.
Here it is, my very own conspiracy
theory, and why not, it seems the rage
lately to have one or several.
Its not a fffflat earth five G pedopile of deep state
members sealing themselves into the pyramids
beneath central park my theory is out in the open
my conspiracy theory is this...Amy CB is a red
herring, a magician's slight of hand, a look
over there while we do this here trick. Many of us worry
about what she will do when appointed. Roe
versus Wade, healthcaringliveaid, hell even
bring back segregation, so it is no wonder all our eyes
are looking, watching, and as she takes up her role, will
watch even more, will gather forces to scream outrage,
and forces will reply in like to fight that scream
a fracking of forces all looking at the court, at decisions that may
destroy the great work that went before... and while we all stare
and scream and rage into the night the fire that is climate
destruction will continue unabated...while we worry about influence
we will forget the biggest battle of our lives... the fight
for ourselves – not for the planet, the planet will survive,
not for biodiversity, it will return – for us,
our race, our future generations, us. While we gather
our voices, while we watch and complain at the judgments
oil companies will reap the harvests of a balance
lost in the clamor for the next logged and delivered forest...
America the new, America the great, America straddles
the petroleum demolition men counting their billions
while Amy waves at us, smiles and curtsies her little bit of praise
to the men of might as night descends to abscond with futures
Amy dances, a manicured mannequin, Harlequin's mistress
selling our souls on the bench of fossil fueled destruction
Decided – or been decided, luckily it was 1977
so any decision was free, contextually.
Favourite shirt, white cotton, four buttons
to the neck, overly large, unflappably flappy –
it was even clean, jeans, basically
in 1977 it was always jeans.
Enter formal entrance, footsteps echo
on floors a thousand feet have traversed
before two huge doors, wooden, designed
to intimidate, worked, says a lot about
doors passed and thresholds still to cross,
a sign – interviews this way arrow demands
the right, dutifully followed,
encounter four students hardly older
seated, erectly, behind a large table,
table adorned with a white table cloth –
it matched the shirt except whiter
newer, suited to that room
and time. “Sit,” sat,
interview began – blame the voice
not its timbre, its deep, beautiful resonance,
a bassoon of a voice – its ability
to locate specifically
in that room, on that chair.
Voice, hair too, long, obviously washed,
overly so, combed to perfection –
not theirs, allowed to just be, hanging
loose, they had no attention
to details to worry about, speak…
the chair moves further and further away
an interrogation in long shot – reverse zoom,
table, corridor – two double doors, outside;
‘thank you, we’ll let you know,’
already did, contrast of voice, of hair,
the large staring portraits understood
everything in that room knew – the room itself,
especially in 1977, University
may have been free but entry never was.
into the soil plunge these hands
into the broken-down twigs of a planned event
fingers push past shattered beetle husk
and twisted leg
of grasshopper lingered too long
nails collect the minute gasp of leaf
dreaming still of tree and wind –
will the wind ever let us go?
like a whisper it enters the shell
of our dream
calls to us across the long, long eon
of hope –
how many of us fear
after all this time
we have been wrong?
into the darkness
into the moist regret of a thing
not done, the understood stench
of it being too late
like a voice in the night
too late, too late
the sun is long gone –
did it settle for a thing
other than our intent?
cover me with straw
cover me with mulch
with broken fragment with silent song
into the decay of day
into the decline of time
into the final gasp, a flurry of fake warmth
and then the stillness –
the rigor mortis of freedom
lost in reality
