Two Hundred and Twenty-Five.


Izzy circle


this is my face when I’m just about to sneeze,
sitting on the floor of my room in the rathdowne street sharehouse I shared with an absentee, a pothead lawyer and a shut-in that reeked of weed and shook with blazing video-game guns
sitting on the floor of my room with my back against the door

this is my face looking up into the glare of the sun on the beach

this is my face when we were robbed in the debating grand final in year 11
and you agreed, we were robbed

this is my face after the first public showing of the first real, full-length play I wrote

this is my face when I realised that you hadn’t actually planned an ending or decided who the murderer was at my 13th birthday murder mystery party

this is my face after I asked you to leave when Mum was overseas
and you weren’t looking after us, we were looking after you

this is my face when you did a comedy sketch with our chocolate Easter rabbits for an hour before letting us eat them

this is my face when you told us the blair witch was in the isolated bush around the shack, then switched the torch off in the pitch dark and bolted off leaving my and Gree behind

this is my face when you told me the story of how you met Mum

this is my face when I stubbed my toe and you put your big hand around my foot and squeezed and squeezed to make it better

this is my face when you put on the Beatles number 1 CD again
and again
and again
until the generator died and we didn’t have any lights left

this is my face when I couldn’t stop laughing at your ridiculous lanky rock dance moves, the air guitar, the Elvis hip swing

this is my face, and even though it doesn’t really look like yours, sometimes I can see you in it.


Sarah circle


The trains scrape across the tracks like possums screaming
The possums scream a little, just to join in
But their hearts aren’t in it
They’re too busy staring desperately at the sky, looking for the stars
Rubbing their muddy eyes, lost at sea while the gulls cackle and wheel
Remembering the constellations their mothers taught them
Big fat old possum, mister ringtail, the tree bark trail
Gone foggy now, gone quiet up there
Floating away in the big dome sky
Off to the next world, where they’re needed more and better



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