.
next in line
for santa…
Mummy’s spit in my hair
.
Christmas lights…
across the road
traffic light blinking
.
Christmas Eve
kids asleep – unwrapping
her
.
new Christmas boardies…
a size too small
after lunch
.
hanging on a nail…
the end of the year
.
New Year’s calendar
hung over
the kitchen sink
.
curb side bin
emptied New Year’s day –
a little bit left
.
.
.
Nearly Christmas…
unwrapping my first
lychee
.
.
.
When we heard you were over
a decade older than her
my brother said something
about ‘Uncle Dave’ and I must admit
we all laughed a little.
.
Two migratory birds
flew into Brisbane last Christmas, white
as chalk cliffs; their bones grinned
in the sun as they anticipated our eyes.
.
And we watched…
sunlight playing in her hair,
her travelled heart
no longer searching for repair.
Cracking a Gold we drank agreeably
about Kentish ales and how you met:
in grey twilight
picking up the clarinet
next to her car
Last night, placing bets
about why you asked us to huddle
around the laptop, we watched
a grinning British bowler hat
beside our sister, your new bride.
And we hooted like drunken yobbos
from The Hill at the Gabba.
.
.
The room crinkles plastic sheeting,
stepping softly, we pause
to help her focus.
.
All senses gather again
inside walls, to hold a meeting
for a minute.
.
This is a room for women. I clamp
a hose to the tap, filling the pool
with warm waters.
.
Her sisters recreate a womb
out of soft light around her.
Busy, hushed, pause again, carry on.
.
Trade like hands push and probe,
‘Position is good. Don’t
push yet. Let it happen.’
.
She stands alone in labour,
supported from a distance
of a glass of water.
.
Ruptured water balloon drains
insulation, coconut saddled into pelvis,
pressing for a three-inch journey.
.
Another set of leg cramps
down my belly. This body knowing
what to do, taking over.
.
The walls, quiet street
and sacred night accept the noises
of a first breath and cry.
.
pied hill prawns 