Friday Poem 3: Map of the Uneaten


The kitchen has all the evidence

of breakfast balanced in exact disorder;

the egg shells spills of milk

fresh grains of crumpled weetbix

finely ground by hand

and honey strands arranged from

jar to lip and back to jar.


I am armed with a cloth

about to wipe it clean and delete the morning’s ritual

divide the crusts among the chickens

water down the dust and spray

sand away the places you carved your names

the indelible crayon that travels

beyond the paper and onto the wood.


But there, in the slant of the morning

my will, my wishbone shatters.

It is now mixed with the milky map of the uneaten,

I watch it congeal next to the toast

which is exactly as you left it

and travels from past to present and back again.


There will not be another morning

with clamour and mixing of this honey and this time;

the children have left

there is no returning

even from lip to lip

no more milky traces to follow home.


Friday Poem 2 – Stains


the smooth sky is rapid with wind
air that smacks heat and belts the trees with it
until they bend into sulky mouths

the slap-down heat of the iron hot hands
melts bitumen with the constant light
all along the famished grass

flicking and bloodless clouds
mock shadow under the eye
the covered stains beneath skin

scales as it heals and dries
to stormcloud edging as hidden
as pollution and as rife.

Friday Poem 1 – Currawong


The villain currawong owns the whole garden;
on cusp of morning the swoop of his voice
corrugates the quiet
the flute and twist
of the future
nest and swoop
mimic his yellow speckled eye.

His black intention
intuits the sun
pricks the light from shadow
flies into the house
and collects up the morsels
leftover laughter
cut-offs of thought
that tremble under the table.

His scimitar beak will load them all
his throat tickled by that last thread of your dream
that pendant of your longing
and he flies it home
to the white manifora
after he feeds some to his young
swallows the rest whole.