in the wreck
his teeth dripping with blood
we hung upside down
one breath away from the cliff edge
with the ghost gum holding our sway
and I touched Ezra
and shivered
I struggled to the door
and pushed
as the tree surrendered
we toppled
the car, Ezra, me
kept falling
until I landed
this morning.
Dad didn’t come home last night
Dad didn’t come home last night
me and the ghost waited
listened for the tyre crunch on the drive
for the drunken key in the lock
the ghost wasn’t worried
she sat in front of her mirror
and looked at the family photos.
I lay in bed
thinking of road accidents
back street gangs
police RBT units on the highway
then I remembered the woman
the one Dad refused to tell us about
as he nervously straightened his tie
and combed his hair (first time this week).
I thought I was the one
supposed to be out all Saturday night
not my fifty-year-old father!
why am I alone in bed
with my sensible pyjamas
and a good book?
why is Desiree snoring
when our father’s out on the town
and we’re home by midnight
and why, why is the ghost still smiling
does she know something I don’t . . .
Sunday lunch
Cold chicken, fresh bread
Dad and me on the veranda
Dad still in last night’s clothes
we eat quietly
as he tells me
about his only big date in seven years.
The dinner, the wine
their children in every glass
and all the time
Dad’s trying to flirt
until dessert
when he gives up and tells
this woman of his wife and her death
and the years drinking early evening
with his workmates
and coming home to us
and the photos on his dresser
and over coffee it takes hours
to tell a life story
and to listen to hers
and that’s what they did all night
(a rueful smile over our chicken).
He talked all night, and listened.
he didn’t mention his work
he talked like he’s talking to me now
he talked until he knew
the ghost still haunted him
and always would.
This morning Dad came home
to the photos on the dresser
and planned another big date
seven years from today.
The earthquake
The earth moved last night
the ancient plates under our mountain shifted
as windows spooked and rattled
the lampshade cracked
and our wedding photo
fell off the dresser.
Desiree slept
Jack snored
I fastened the window
turned off the lamp
picked up the photo
and spent an hour holding the frame
getting married all over again
while the earth
threatened.
This morning
the papers reported
3.5 on the Richter Scale
and no damage
I didn’t mention the wedding
but all morning I felt
the cruel aftershock.
What I do for a living
I spend my day in front of this ignorant computer
typing stories
no, not stories (stories have heart)
typing articles
on our trade deficit and unemployment figures
so people can read and worry over their cornflakes.
At lunch I cross Broadway
for a drink and a sandwich
forgetting my health deficit and waistline figures.
The other night Desiree asked me
why I wanted to be a journalist
and it took me exactly forty-nine minutes to
think of an answer
and that was a simple “for the money”
because during forty-eight of those forty-nine
minutes
I remembered their childhood
Jack’s first day at school
his little wave
as the teacher lead him away
and Desiree’s laugh every morning
at something on television
and how it woke the house
and I realised I don’t give a stuff
about politics, or inflation,
or rising interest rates,
as long as I keep hearing Desiree’s laugh
and seeing Jack’s pride
then I know what I really do
for a living.
All her brain cells
I know why Desiree
doesn’t have a boyfriend
and hasn’t had one
for a long time.
it’s because
she has perfect eyesight
and all her brain cells.
Solo Desiree
Jack and Annabel have made love
I can tell
Jack doesn’t bother me any more with questions
on girls, or sex,
or what he should do about his appearance.
He looks like one of those TV evangelists
who’ve discovered God
and the miracle of money
it’s almost unbearable, his swagger,
but at least
he doesn’t brag out loud.
Annabel’s OK too!
I spent the first hour after meeting her
looking at her top lip
and I’m pleased to report
there’s a good trace of darkening hair
and thank Christ she doesn’t giggle!
or talk about music.
Even Dad liked her
but I think he was just happy to see Jack
bring a friend home
although he doesn’t seem so pleased
when he meets my boyfriends
not that there’s been anyone for a while
I’m going through my Nun stage
you know, wearing black
talking quietly
keeping my desires religiously confined
but not for much longer.
If Jack and Annabel keep pawing each other
when I’m watching television
I’m breaking my vows
problem is,
men are easy to get rid of
harder to find.
The ghost spoke to me last night
The ghost spoke to me last night
I was sleeping
I turned to the window where she sat
she whispered for me to tell Desiree
to stop looking into the mirror
and then she disappeared
the next morning
I told Desiree
she didn’t believe me at first
then she gave me a kiss
went to her room
and came out in her favourite dress
and white stockings
she said she was having the day off
Dad smiled, and said he was too
they both looked at me, pleading
for me to jig school
this house is going mad.
Father of the year
It’s been a month since Dad had his big date
in that time he’s devoted
ever
y Saturday to Des and me
we’ve been out for lunch
to the movies
on a ferry cruise
and last week we camped the night
in the Blue Gum Forest
Des and I are worried we’ll never get rid of him!
He talks to me about Annabel
and encourages Desiree to go out more
he tries to cook dinner
we have long involved talks
on our life, our school, our future
it’s like living with your Deputy Principal.
I’ve seen Dad in my room
looking at my wall photos
he’s started ironing Desiree’s clothes
twice he’s increased our allowance
he’s talking of us going on holiday together
he said I could bring Annabel
and Desiree could bring anyone
(Desiree looked ill)
he’s stopped drinking wine with dinner
he cuts the fat off his meat
last week I saw him preparing to go jogging
I occasionally catch him looking at me as I read
he looks satisfied
he gets home early from work
and wants to play cricket with me in the backyard
he sits alone in the cubbyhouse
staring across the valley
he says “nigh nigh” to us, as though we’re
Our Dad is going for father of the year
and slowly sending Desiree and me
completely mad.
Annabel writes a poem for english
I have been told by my English teacher
she with the nervous twitch
and perfect vowels
stolen from British movies at the Savoy
that I should write a poem
as an assignment
and that the poem should be on NATURE,
and I should make full use of
simile, metaphor, and alliteration.
Now, I like birds, and streams,
and the odd tree as much as anyone
but if I’m told to do something
so bloody narrow again I’ll
I’ll
I’ll
Nature
(A poem with simile, metaphor, & alliteration)
the King Parrot
drops like a stone
like my Dad when he’s drunk
like a Nun’s eyes before God
the King Parrot
is stone
is drunk
is dead
dead door-nail dead darkly
definitely damn dead (oh dear!)
And as I hand this limp piece of protest
to my teacher
I see my English marks drop faster than
faster than
faster than a dead parrot!
Winter Annabel
I’m sick of people talking about
this country as being only
sun, beaches, and the outback.
Where I live it’s cold, windy,
and the mist drops heavy in January.
While people fry on Bondi
I wear an overcoat and a wet nose
and every house
keeps a stack of firewood ready all summer.
Sure, it only snows a few times a year
but those winds punching through Megalong Valley
make my teeth ache with cold
and I love it all!
I’ve never seen the sense
in lying comatose on a pile of sand
turning pink
or swimming in each other’s effluent
that passes as surf.
And I like how the rail-thin Dolly victims
in Year 11 desperately try to look slim
in two jumpers and an overcoat.
My idea of fashion is a flannelette shirt
and Levis in front of the fireplace.
People say the beach is the great equaliser
who are they kidding?
sit at Bondi and watch the boys flex
and the girls walk bolt upright
it looks like a nightmare episode of Baywatch.
The true equaliser is the mountain cold
and stacks of clothes flung together
maybe then we’d listen to what each other is saying
instead of checking out the best bods.
And as I wrap another layer
around my Size 10
I think of Jack’s favourite saying:
“today’s tan is tomorrow’s cancer”.
I walk outside
and whistle at the wind.
Echoes
My son is seeing a girl
My son is seeing a girl
and a ghost.
I hear him talking to Annabel
in the chill afternoon
and I hear whispers
to the ghost
in the long night.
I haven’t told him I know.
What could I say?
In the past year
he has grown tall
his eyes sparkle the way of his mother’s
and when he’s reading
I look at him with pride.
I know who the ghost is
I’m glad they talk
I stare into the mirror
as the trees shadow through the window
and I envy Jack.
I lean against the wall and listen.
He is talking to her
a soft monologue
that pumps through this house
like an open vein.
I try to picture the ghost
sitting at the edge of his bed
and the night grows suddenly dark
and the whispers fade.
I return to bed
and wrap the blankets of memory
around me, tight.
Sex, sport, and nose hair (according to Annabel)
Sex is what Jack and I practise at Megalong Creek.
Sex is my parents encouraging me to go out
early Saturday night, so they can “talk”.
Sex is the colour of the December bushfires
with our hut feeling their hot breath.
Sex is what the school terms “personal development”
as our parents look worried.
Sport is my Dad’s idea of a Sunday out.
Sport is a short skirt in winter
tossing a netball through the mist
while our teacher sips coffee.
Sport does something to the brain of an everyday
male.
Sport rumbles down the stairs
knocking Year 7s over
as it swings its gorilla arms to the oval.
Nose Hair is what Jack thinks of more than me
Nose Hair tickles as we kiss
Nose Hair grows and grows and grows
Nose Hair is the forward brother of ear hair
Nose Hair longs to be plucked!
Blue mountains school
The clouds cover our school
as impenetrable as Science
on a Friday afternoon
the black cockatoos crunch nuts
and drop them from trees
like bombs cracking the schoolyard
Annabel and me on the seat
our lips feeling their way
through the mist
when the Deputy Principal Mrs Jonestown
like a tank
comes lumbering through the murk
guns blazing
horn-rimmed glasses
like heat-seeking missiles
aimed at Annabel and me
and she starts on with that
“what sort of example is this to the
Juniors” stuff
and I try to defend with
“no one can see us in this cloud”
&nbs
p; but with the predictability of someone over thirty
she shoots a “does that make it all right”
and now would not be the time
to mention love, peace,
and an end to the Cold War I fear
so we’re marched back to class
prisoners of war
sentenced
to six months hard labour
and 2-Unit Maths
and the clouds come in thicker
soft cages
hiding tanks clanking
around the perimeter fence
waiting . . .
Bloody rain
“Bloody rain” says Mr Chivers
bouncing a basketball
on the one dry patch of court
“bloody rain” he nods to our Sports class
and gives us the afternoon off.
Bloody rain all right
as Annabel and I run to Megalong Creek hut
faster than we ever have in Chivers’s class
and the exercise we have in mind
we’ve been training for all year
but I doubt if old Chivers
will give us a medal if he ever finds out.
We high-jump into the hut
and strip down
climb under the blankets
and cheer the bloody rain
as it does a lap or two
around the mountain
while Annabel and me
embrace like winners should
like good sports do
as Mr Chivers sips his third coffee
and twitches the bad knee
from his playing days
while miles away
Annabel and I
score a convincing victory
and for once in our school life
the words “Physical Education”
make sense . . .
Confessions
“I like the back of your neck”
her fingers roam
untouched but hopefully washed territory
I feel a twitch in my knee
(of all places!)
“I like your ears”
I’ve seen my Dad’s ears grow big
and old with him. The elephant
with his memory in the mirror
“I like your mouth”
but only when it’s shut, or silent,
keep it silent Jack
the wet of our kiss soaks my insides
“I like your hair”
my Dad again
haircut like a McDonald’s arch
retreating to the safety of bald
“I like your eyes”
I look straight
think only of the Kurdish soldier
facing his firing squad
seeing beyond, and never looking back.