Someone’s idea, we count coins between class
and fang out the carpark in the little white car
Any Bloomies door will do; we do it all the time
Hand over our lunch money for a measly two-five
We’re all Havaiana thongs and Incubus songs
and an empty coke bottle for the new buddy bong
as we pinch some hose from a stranger’s lawn
(not the first time – it’s almost all gone!)
Now cruising out east to our usual meet
windows cranked low in the blistering heat
and park in the shade of some scraggly tree
there’s four of us here, four- including me
Emerging from pocket, we inspect the prize
I call “seconds” to secure the starting line
and pluck a cigarette for contribution to the mix
Fingers and scissors making light work of it
It’s way too hot; we strip down to our bras
and the mix is too green, I’m coughing hard
“so baked!” I choke, and oh how they laugh
just another sesh in the little white car
–
–
–
[Ah memory; knocks the breath from me
the passage of time, so very heavy
a little thing, now 20 years in the past
– how could 20 years go so damn fast!?]
I called for you, spoke your name
thought you might want to play
a summer fling, a cheeky thing
that had crossed me, inappropriately
some years ago when I came
with another, and in passing
you’d thrown a polite
“G’day. Are you enjoying your stay?”
your voice pushing me down
to a place of imagination, or
perhaps premonition –
the witchy kind, inherent
a certain knowing, as clear as a bell
we would find each other,
some other time, in some other life
when I had course-corrected
my way back to this place
your kisses on my face, my skin
I take you all in, and cry out to a god
I don’t believe in.
Damp. Mud. Leaves.
She crawls on her belly
a gap under creaking stair
hides herself there
and still, like a stone
shallow, hard to take air
something damaged in there
she swallows, blood
a little too much
and listening –
black pupils, wide eyes
lenses open to receive the light
unaware; cobwebs in hair
like a virgin’s white veil
she rests, numb, cold and unfeeling
broken body, eyes closed
until rumbling motor on approach
signals his return –
where he will soon discover
the empty room, the mattress bare
no – no play thing there
he will search for her into the night
with loaded rifle and flashlight
but unmoving, she will remain
safe to let herself forget
this perfect secret-hidey space
here will be her resting place
— until one afternoon,
a week from today
as he waves the flies from his face
and lifts a panel from its place
finds her body in fresh decay.