Poem
Maxine Beneba Clarke
Breath
the night before school starts,
our swimmer-tans fading,
we cheat, with gozleme,
from the woolworths fridge:
fry it golden, and crispy
on the heavy skillet
with slices of lemon,
to acid through guilt
add three small fistfuls
of cherry tomatoes:
quick-picked from the garden,
stunted, but sweet
ooooh, i like these, says my daughter,
(splint hugging left pinky,
from a hard fractured catch
at pool volleyball)
they’re teeny-tiny:
much lollier than shop ones
so red-red-shiny
they burst on your tongue
my son’s never liked them,
and why should we argue?
he pushed aside, quarantined,
with his fork
small terracotta stains
bruise his plate, where they rolled
days ago,
when rain arrived,
the sky bled water
the colour of rust
rushing down the drains,
temporarily dousing
washing plants
and sidewalks
iron-oxide
and ash
the night before school starts,
my hands are unsteady:
i slice my finger,
and fumble a glass
think
what will be left
of the world,
for you kids?
but say
can you believe it?
grade four,
and grade nine!
the morning that school starts,
my heart’s heavy-tired
summer combusted,
all ember
and flame
brew virus,
and drone strike,
felled copters from smoke-skies
there seemed almost nowhere
that death did not roam
running eager hands
over all it ached for:
thin, trembling fingers
as blond
as bone
koalas drank from plastic;
magpies echoed sirens;
kids cowered in the ocean,
t-shirts snagging on piers
is your hat in your bag?
cutting sandwich, diagonal
do you remember where your new classroom is?
and a warm hand in mine,
that seems smaller, somehow
at the school gates, i realise
i am holding my breath