Tuesday, March 23, 2010


Fairy tales were
what I read before
sleep in her house
From a huge book, left
near the bed

The more people I tell
the more I seem to show

We visit Wave Rock and
Mulka’s Cave with its
handprints and story
of a cross-eyed birth
and devoured children

I want a word
for this place
in my stomach
behind where
tiny feet will press
beneath my ribs

some ganglia, twisted
spaghetti of nerves

You eat scones with
your parents, at the kiosk
Tiny waterholes, writhing
with baby frogs
pocket the rock

I scoop some out
Smell of dead ones
makes me retch,
alone, I get scared
walk back

Overlooked, the ants
Mulka was left to
once he was speared
to death

Words are words
We leave
with a tshirt

If you're anywhere near Brisbane --> Speedpoets

Wednesday, March 10, 2010


On her knees again
changing his dressings
My Grandmother’s
sunlit hands over
a wound that
never healed

Seven months and
still not showing

Why I’m here-
This growing inside me
drawing me toward
the women and their

They’re staying
home, watching
A Country Practice
leafing through old Bride
and its not cliché
it’s just what they do

I’m still going
out with the boys
in the utes, in my jeans
with their guns
and beer
It’s what they do

I think of the soft bones
The ones that aren’t
mine, hardening inside
my body, half-baked
bun in the oven

Your Mother is showing
me how to make cookies
for the men to take out
I want to be good

I want to know
about babies from women
who’ve had them

Which hidden parts
of us dilate, darken
or tear

Monday, March 8, 2010


In my grandmother’s house
was a ginger cat, too fat
to walk, which no one admitted
ever feeding

Seven months and
still not showing

I have to shuffle my feet
through the soft lolling bodies
to bang on the roof, stop.
I can feel blood and fur
drying on my ankles as
I get out of the tray to piss

In the graded paddock
there’s nowhere to hide

I hear the returned focus as
behind me the torches catch
another set of eyes, sharp
cracks and ricochet fracture
the hard night

A cat, feral, screaming
now, sharpening
the air with pain
now and the boys
are laughing as I walk

Your face pale and
tight as the moon
I grab your gun

push past the boys elbowing
each other proudly and aim
at its head

As it slumps, the silence
releases us. You’re smiling
at your Dad, who’s jumping
around like a shot
rabbit- Jeez she can shoot
-My lad knocked up
a good one.

For what it means,
I grew up with guns

Sunday, March 7, 2010


Always on
my grandmother’s
bedroom wall, a picture
of a boy and a girl
climbing a tree
to a nest,
and now

Seven months and
still not showing

but, riding on the back
of the ute I’m feeling the weight
of the baby with every bump
hard on my bladder

The empty quiet
immense in the trees
circles us

The boys are shooting
rabbits. One, hit, backflips
about a metre into the air
and your father stands
in front of me grinning
His brown fingers slip quickly
into the limp body,
tiny but deep

They slide in and draw out
a glistening mass of pink
shapes, tied in a clump
Holds them out
toward me

The fresh, simple presence
of the dead mother
in his other hand

He laughs and says- I reckon
you’ll give us this many
-good thing
not all at once eh?

and there's another here > Another Lost Shark and if you keep following the links you'll find more :)