not with Dad beside her
and us in the back, talking.
I can feel Des crying beside me
I put my arm around her
we shiver together
in the mist
and wait for it
to clear.
The Wild Orchard
Valentine’s day
Dear Annabel,
HAPPY VALENTINE’S DAY!
I wanted to give you this card in person,
but my sister told me that Valentine’s Day wishes
must remain anomn, anunom, anonomus, nameless.
So, whoever you think I am is probably wrong.
But it’s definitely not
Peter Blake, the school captain.
Let’s face it, he couldn’t even spell his own name,
let alone anonymous!
And it’s not Alex Ricco, who seems to act louder
every time you walk past the gang at lunchtime.
Alex is busy right now writing a Valentine
to his basketball.
Anyway, think of nose hair!
Happy Valentine’s
J XXX
Annabel on Jack
He sent me a Valentine’s card
it took him six months to get this far
he almost signed it
he’s as transparent as gladwrap
but I like his smile
and the way he tries to meet my eyes
and he doesn’t play football
so he can’t be too bad
and unlike the rest of the school
he’s not in love with baggy pants
and baseball caps slapped on backwards
he doesn’t say “Yo”
or call everyone “brother”
and act like he’s from South-Central L.A.
I’ve never seen him in the company
of a basketball
or another girl
so if he gets the courage
to ask me out
I’ll say yes
and worry about it
later.
I kiss Annabel’s photo
I kiss Annabel’s photo every night
it’s an old voodoo trick
the ghost taught me
for years after Mum died
I kissed her photo
other kids had teddy bears
and tapes of Playschool
I cuddled a photo
I tucked myself in with a ghost
and dreamed
of holidays that lasted all summer
and parents holding hands
and games where I always won
and the ghost walked to my room
to push my hair back
and smile love.
When Mum wasn’t there
and the holidays dried up
I ripped the photo from the album
and kissed it once every night
until the ghost came.
So I kiss Annabel’s photo
and work my spell
just long enough to hope.
It can’t do any harm
even if it won’t do any good
but you tell that
to the ghost and me.
There’s more to life than Annabel
There’s more to life than Annabel.
There’s Science with Mr Edwards
rattling his bones as he
pours one chemical into another
and on Monday morning
twenty-eight students concentrate hard
and hope for an explosion.
There’s cold roast-beef sandwiches
on white bread
the canteen special on Monday
and served till Friday.
There’s lunchtime
Ezra and me sitting on the fence
hoping no-one asks us to join
in basketball
or football
or putting long cold scratches in the duco
of the Principal’s new Volvo.
There’s the books from the library
and the last five I’ve read
have been about aliens
invading the world
and two teenage heroes with computers
and I swear I’m ripping up my library card.
There’s more to life than Annabel
but not this week
when I’ve sent her a Valentine
and right now
I’m leaving Ezra on the fence
as I see her walking across the oval
and I’m asking her
out
and was that a smile that creased her mouth . . .
First date
We’re in the back seat
Annabel and me
our knees are touching
our elbows
our legs
our shoulders
I’m looking straight
but I can see her
our first date
witnessed by the early evening commuters
of the 482 Express to town.
The next three hours
Annabel and I
will spend touching
on the bus
at the movies
on the way home
I hope I can stay sane
all night
not to say anything
but say enough
not to do anything
but do enough.
Desiree said
“just be yourself”
Dad said
“try to act better than you normally do”
while the ghost smiled all afternoon
and beckoned me to reflect in the mirror.
I’d like to tell Annabel
about the ghost
and Desiree’s moustache
and my poetry
but such secrets
stay hidden
longer than a night on the bus.
Annabel turns and asks what I’m thinking
My Dad whispers
“I’m thinking about the movie”
Desiree shouts
“about you Annabel”
the ghost:
“how nice it is to sit beside you”
as I gulp and ask
“what do you think of facial hair on women?”
as the bus
brakes sharply
at the red light.
Annabel writes poetry
After the movie
which I can’t remember
over coffee tasting of mud
with the banging of pinball machines
our hands 110 centimetres apart
on the shiny formica table
one hour left
to walk home
one hour
for me to say something
I blurt out the only word I shouldn’t:
“poetry”
and Annabel’s eyes,
dulled by cafe noise and smoke,
flash!
She writes poetry!
but not about her family
her friends
her future
she writes about bodies
their shape
the way they walk
the hinge of an arm around a waist
the machine rhythm of gymnastics
the bumping uglies that make brothers & sisters
and I forgot what we said
but we said enough
and I talked about the ghost
without feeling foolish
and all the way home along Narrowneck Road
the stars did their stuff
for Annabel and me
and poetry!
Annabel
Look at her nose
yes
look at her hair
yes
at her vegetarian eyes
yes yes yes
she is a cyclone
a calm
I float I spin
when I touch her arm.
Annabel and the ghost
I’m not scared
or embarrassed
I’m excited
he’s telling me about the ghost
and I can see who she is
and it makes perfect sense.
I remember being ten years old
and the stories my Mum
told me late at night
with the Southern Cross
tracking across my bedroom
and Mum making it part of each story
as she sat on the bed.
And Dad’s snoring
with Mum whispering “Quiet, George,
you’ll wake Annabel”
and how I tried hard not to giggle.
And the pancakes stacked
with strawberries and maple syrup
we’d have every Saturday breakfast
in fact, still have every Saturday
and for seven years I’ve reached
for a second helping
and winked at Mum.
And as Jack and I walk down Narrowneck Road
I look up at the Southern Cross
and think of Mum and Dad
sleeping now, Dad still snoring
and I think of Jack
at ten years old
alone
hugging a photo
and the ghost
makes complete and perfect sense.
The ghost didn’t come home last night
I waited until dawn
excited
with the news of Annabel and me
I crept into Dad’s room
and saw the empty mirror
the clothes in Desiree’s room
remained unfolded
Desiree asleep in her Levi’s
and the echo of the ghost
hung loose
I climbed out the window
and sat on the roof
one eye on the chimney
thinking of a ghost parading as Santa
the Southern Cross faded
as the sun crept up the mountain
and I called the ghost
and called again
and felt nine years old
waiting for Mum to come home
so I could tell her my day before I slept.
I climbed back through the window and into bed
and thought of Annabel
but she had the face of the ghost
and I must have dozed
as I woke sweating.
I looked at the calendar
seven years today
my Mum died
and now I know
why the ghost
is away.
The fireplace
Our house has a fireplace
one of those slow-combustion models
with the glass door
and the soot-black internal chimney.
My Dad cuts the Ironbark
with an axe he’s had since he was a kid
the sound of chopping
is the winter pulse of this suburb.
At night, Desiree moves her chair
close to the fire
and talks on the phone
Dad rests his coffee on the grill
to keep it warm
while he goes out into the mist
for another log.
At midnight, alone, I open the fireplace door
and feed my poems on Annabel
to the flame.
The words dance with a heat and light
they never had on the page
each flicker warming my hands.
I go back to my room
to write some more food
for the fire burning
in this house.
Ezra finds the hut
If you follow the bush track
off Narrowneck Road for 500 metres
you’ll see the ghost gum
the one with the arrow
pointing west
follow that track
until you reach the bridge
before the creek
there’s an overgrown wallaby track
push through it
until you see the tree
with Jack & Annabel’s initials.
Quiet now.
look up at the ridge
on the left
see the hut
built by bushwalkers fifty years ago
if you go there after school
you’ll find Annabel & Jack
but hey,
don’t go there after school.
Megalong creek hut
Ever since Desiree told me about this hut
I knew it would be the special place
for Annabel and me
somewhere silent.
her parents
my Dad
even the ghost couldn’t find us here.
we’ve cleaned it
evicted the resident possum
nailed the walls and roof back
the wind still creeps in
but we hold each other to keep warm
we take turns to tell stories
as the trees brush against the roof
and the world clouds over
in the winter afternoon.
We’ve planned a night alone here
but
neither of us has that much courage
one ghost is enough to handle.
still
every afternoon with the thought of homework
and school fading
we run through the bush
to our special place
and disappear
from sight
Annabel and the wild orchard
Sometimes I don’t want to reach our hut
I want to take Jack’s hand
follow the trail
down to the six foot track
pick up a snake stick
and like an old miner
follow that track to the valley
and there, with Jack,
set up camp
pick apples from the wild orchard
watch Jack try to build a fire
and when he’s sweating with frustration
offer him the matches
and laugh all through dinner
and at night watch the stars
no higher than the cliff walls
and the two of us
holding tight for warmth
as sleep wraps around
we dream in the soil
of our days
moist, firm, full
until the sun
wakes
and offers us time
to walk
holding hands
in the wild orchard.
Making a Living
The funeral
We were twelve
the dead bird on the steps
Ezra touched the matted feathers
with a stick
and wondered aloud
why it flew into a closed window.
We got Dad’s shovel
buried it under the fir tree
lashed two sticks together
wrote RIP on the cross-stick
and stood looking at the grave
Ezra said he’d never seen
anything dead before
I said I had
and walked back to the house.
Desiree
Late at night
when Jack and Dad are asleep
I stand naked in my bedroom
in front of the mirror
I look at my breasts
in the surgery fluorescent light
of my Mother’s death
I touch them
feel my nipples harden unwillingly
it can kill me
this thing, this woman thing.
I find a different lump every night
and lie awake
wishing it away.
My last boyfriend tried to understand
he even offered to inspect them for me
his hand made me forget, for a time
but I know
it’s not the cancer
or the pain
it’s the waiting
as I pull the sweater
gently
over my head.
Careers
It’s Careers Advice Week
where a very serious man
in a white shirt and thin black tie
talks to us, individually, about our futures.
With ten per cent unemployment
and all of us desperate to avoid
thinking about next year
I don’t like his chances.
When Ezra saw him yesterday
he told the Advisor that his ambition
was to never see his father again.
Now, knowing Ezra’s father
this seemed a worthy occupation
the Advisor handed Ezra a TAFE Handbook
and made another appointment.
I’ve decided with my five minutes
I’m going to talk non-stop
and, hopefully, walk out.
I’m going to tell him
I want to marry Annabel
write a book of poems
even people like him could read
buy a house on a cliff
find a cure for nose hair
win a medal at the Poetry Olympics1
be interviewed regularly on television
and never enter a school again
and never wear a white shirt with a thin black tie.
* * *
1 POETRY OLYMPICS actually happen. The idea was originated in London by poet Michael Horowitz
Selling up
Last night
a Real Estate Agent visited.
Dad showed him the house
the view
avoided the cubbyhouse
promised to trim the hedge
they sat down and talked money
and buyers moving west
Interest Rates
the chance of a quick sale
and all through the meeting
Dad kept looking around
as though somebody was watching him
until the Agent got worried
left his card
told Dad to “discuss it with the wife”
by then
Desiree and I knew
we weren’t selling
because Mum
had already made her views
hauntingly clear.
The wreck
last night
I dreamed I died.
A car accident
Ezra beside me