Eurydice in dreamtime
From the bedroom window, a hessian curtain cuts the view. Past the commission flats and out into the desert, strange creatures bury bones to hide their intelligent design. The river bunyip sings from the end of Smith Street. He wants to know if you’re chasing him because he’s ready to play.
Can you hear me?
Tall palm trees grow in the gaps between buildings. At the Carlton Club, long-legged trannies reapply lipstick and leave bloodstains on anaglypta wallpaper. You use the fire escape to climb to the roof over detritus of one hundred years of hotel lost property and some barbed wire. You have an enduring thirst. Please have a can of beer.
Open your eyes.
An Italian nonna uses her hose as a broom on her concrete lawn. She grows heirloom tomatoes in styrofoam boxes and keeps an eye on the neighbourhood. It’s not her evil eye. That's saved for her daughter’s new boyfriend. You and he go tyre-kicking on Friday nights. She knows because she can see you.
What is your name?
An outdoor crust of sleep in your eyes cracks an egg yolk and the early morning rumble of tram tracks. You cough a cockroach, and smell the silverfish, ripe at the edge of the linoleum. Their insect armours march along historic song-lines. They whispered stories of first contact while you slept.
Squeeze my finger.