“I like your arms”
Annabel, give in. Just admit it
I’m your kind of guy
I’m perfect, OK.
What can you find to fault
“but about your nose hair, Jack . . .”
The right reasons
I’ve been sitting here
trying to think of the one thing in my life
that will give it sense,
like they do in Hollywood movies
and after ninety minutes of formula
you get a happy family
with blonde children
and the wife always looks younger than she should
and the hero looks older
and the credits roll happily ever after
while Annabel and I walk along Narrowneck Road
knowing her parents are away
but I’m still thinking of this one thing
and all I get is
a nine-year-old boy
ducking wild plovers dive-bombing the schoolyard
thinking
“what if they hit my eye”
or a twelve-year-old
riding beside the train tracks
looking for bits of human left
after the train smash
“what if I find some skin
what if I find some skin”.
At fourteen, I’m standing in a pack of boys
waiting for the ball
so we can avoid bashing heads
and for once it comes my way
and I dive full-length to meet it
“what if I meet someone’s boot
what if I meet someone’s boot”
but I’m lucky, I score,
and no one has to mention fear for another week
or until now
when Annabel and I are in bed together
and I thought football and death
and blindness and parents and school
and alcohol and unlicensed cars
were scary
and you move one arm under my body
and your skin is not hard like
the gloss of magazines
or cold like the railroad metal
or brittle like the beak of a dead plover
and I’m thinking as our bodies meet
that I’ll remember this forever
and I just hope
it’s for all the right reasons.
The bike ride
Annabel has the bottle
I carry maps and food
I’m scared of getting lost
she wants to cycle aimless
she pedals like a caged mouse
she checks her watch
she feels her pulse
she ties the knot of her hair
tight against her neck
she smiles for me to lead
I strain to follow the curve of her road
I hear the birds chorus
to witness such clatter
I am leaning over the handlebars
my shoes pull hard on the pedals
I breathe her scent with the headwind
She rests her thigh on the seat
turns to wait for me
we ride double-file
we hold hands
swing to keep balance
she tells me stories
I tell jokes
we suck water from the bottle as we ride
we stop
kiss with our mouths full
we blow water into each other’s mouth
she smiles
I can feel the crease of her lips
We are in love with this bike ride.
Monday, the last before holidays
Monday, the last before holidays
Ezra and I walk to school
his plaster off, the skin still white
he tells me his father is moving out
later I watch him smile all through Maths.
Monday, the last before holidays
I see Annabel walk up to a bunch of guys
heckling this Year 8 girl
and punch the biggest guy
hard, cracking his smile
she walks away with the girl
and the school holds its breath
I write in my diary
never cross Annabel
never cross Annabel.
Monday, the last before holidays
rumour has it that
two Science teachers are to marry
and honeymoon at Surfers
this confirms our suspicions
that teachers like bank tellers
and public servants
in-breed with immunity.
Monday, the last before holidays
the Principal tells a joke during Assembly
and everyone laughs
not because it was funny
or his timing was right
or even that we understood it
but, after all,
it was
Monday, the last before holidays.
Ms Curling
Ms Curling and I had a talk recently
not about my late essay
or laughing in class
or even my excuse for a uniform
we had a talk about sex
sex and AIDS
sex and babies
sex and Annabel
it was very interesting
watching my favourite teacher
tell me stuff I already knew
and squirm with embarrassment
Ms Curling looks very attractive
when embarrassed
particularly when I asked her about Annabel
how did she know?
was she taught this at University?
was there a subject called
“STUDENTS HAVING SEX — how to find out”?
did she get top marks?
so we skipped Annabel
and discussed condoms
I said I liked orange ones
and we ended our talk, in laughter.
Ms Curling and I sat together sometimes after that
I told her about the hut near Megalong Creek
about my Dad not coming home
about Desiree
Ms Curling said she’d like to meet my Dad
I said he was too old for her
I didn’t know there were teachers like her
I thought the years of exposure to Year 9
dried them out,
made them brittle, hard.
she was OK
maybe I would let her meet my Dad . . .
I’m sure the ghost would approve.
Annabel kisses
Annabel kisses like the wind whistling
through the wattle
Annabel kisses like a prayer I said
at the age of nine
I couldn’t open my eyes for hours
Annabel kisses and our fireplace glows
Annabel kisses and the nuns at St Rita’s
turn their heads
Annabel kisses as the dogs bark
Annabel kisses on October 6th
all afternoon
two days before my birthday
Annabel kisses and even the ghost is silent
Annabel kisses with red lipstick
and her hand softly
on my wrist
Annabel kisses and I think of toothpaste
the 1992 Grand Final
and the beach on a family holiday
Annabel kisses with her eyes open
Annabel kisses in her black dress
Annabel kisses with a sharp intake
of breath
Annabel kisses me
Annabel kisses me
and I kiss back.
It’s easy
It’s easy to tell your Mum
you’re in love
with the guy from up the road
and that you and him
made love in your bed w
ith the birthday sheets
when they were on holidays last weekend.
It’s easy to ask for a second helping of guilt
and misplaced trust
as you share tea
with two spoons of tears
and a dash of broken promises.
It’s easy to invite Jack for dinner
with the family
and feel his hand under the table
while you watch your Mum
reach for the carving knife
as Jack asks for a second helping.
It’s easy to see the fear
in your Dad’s eyes
as he struggles to make sense
of camping trips and story books
and Girl Guide meetings every Thursday
and his pride when I won the high jump
on his forty-fifth birthday
and tonight he looks at Jack
like he looks at his car when it won’t start
it’s easy
easy as kissing your childhood goodbye.
37 lines
She is the reason I walk home from school
the long way
She talks all breath and throat
She keeps my picture on the wall
next to a STOP sign
She says poetry books make good weapons
She says I look like a movie star
I say Keanu Reeves
she says, no, Roger Rabbit.
She listens to Madonna and Opera at the same time
She spoons sugar in her coffee
but refuses to stir
She wears Egyptian sandals in summer
I float down her Nile
She knocks at my door and shouts
“Police. Open Up.”
She wears black stockings with red flowers
She wears black stockings with Baxter boots
She wears black stockings
I follow her step
She eats with a fork
stays afraid of the knife
She kisses me in front of my Dad
we all look out the window
She rides a bicycle like a threat
She says Maths teachers were born
with glasses and bad haircuts
She likes Science
but refuses to cut up the frog
She clenches her fist
as we walk past McDonalds
She is waiting
here
now
She says love is like a shadow
that scares you awake
She refuses to say more.
Telling the ghost
I’m going to tell the ghost to stay away
I don’t know how I’m going to do it
but
I am going to
how long do you need a ghost for?
how long is Dad going to
say I look like you
carry your photo in his wallet
mention you every night over dinner
I’ll be seventeen in two weeks time
Annabel and I are having a private party
in the hut
and then I’m coming home to Dad and Desiree, and
dinner.
At midnight, I’m going to tell the ghost
it’s not that I don’t need her
or want her to stay
I’m just too old to believe in it any more
seven years of talking to myself
seven years of listening
and hearing a fading echo
of a Mother I loved, and still do.
I’ll just tell her straight
blow a kiss
smile (definitely won’t cry)
and get on with this life.
I’ve decided it’s time
I’ve got more than a memory
I see my Mother
in my face
in Desiree’s hair, and her hands,
in what we do in this world.
I know she’ll understand
it’s time
I definitely won’t cry
at least
not until she’s gone.
Echoes
I woke early, dressed
climbed out the window
and sat on our roof
to watch the morning
I could hear the gang-gangs
welcoming the day
I knew I had a full hour
to sit here, and wait.
For the first time in my life
I’m waiting for NOTHING to happen.
I’m seventeen
I’ve cut my nose hair
dressed in clothes my sister would approve of
I’ve washed the childhood from my eyes
I’m sitting on this roof
and I’m happy because all I can see
are trees, the rising mist,
the orange cliffs
and our cubbyhouse, still standing.
I know in one hour my Dad will wake
and cast his eyes to her photo
and he’ll know what his day lacks
before he’s had a chance to change it.
He needs his ghost
whispering through the house
arranging the days into sequence.
I climb down from the roof
and walk around our yard.
I am alone
the only ghost I hear is the wind
I walk along Narrowneck Road
past Annabel’s house
down to the Landslide Cliff
and for the last time
I shout the ghost’s name
and turn
without waiting for the echo.
Steven Herrick is one of Australia’s most popular poets. His books for teens include Love, Ghosts, & Facial Hair; A Place Like This; and The Simple Gift.
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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
First Simon Pulse edition March 2004
Copyright © 1996 by Steven Herrick
Published by arrangement with University of Queensland Press
Originally published in Australia in 1996 as Love, Ghosts and Nose Hair by University of Queensland Press
SIMON PULSE
An imprint of Simon & Schuster
Children’s Publishing Division
1230 Avenue of the Americas
New York, NY 10020
www.SimonandSchuster.com
All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.
Library of Congress Control Number 2003110835
ISBN 0-689-86710-7 (Simon Pulse pbk.)
ISBN: 9780-6898-6710-1 (print)
ISBN: 978-1-4391-2170-2 (eBook)