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ARTS AND CULTURE

Christmas Island crabs

  • 29 November 2011

Asylum (i)

In the hallway, she holds her breath, waitingfor the voice again that calls from there, and just there.

In a white nightdress, she is a ghost, feeling the wallsas though they are faces, locked tight with stories.

In slippers and night silence, she strains for a whisper that says'hello, how are you?' and reminds her not to put cans

in the microwave, or to fall asleep in her chair, or toforget that the most important things have been, and are going.

Somewhere in a drawer, there is a letter that containsdelicate things, and some words about gardens and the weather.

She calls a name and then cries it, trying to force it intothe paintwork like an indent, a foothold.

Alyson Miller

And the red crabs feast

Red crabs' diet consists mainly of fallen leaves, fruits, flowers and seedlings. They are not solely vegetarian however and will eat other dead crabs, birds, the introduced giant African snail and palatable human refuse if the opportunity presents itself.*

Christmas for crabs; their island bloomswith a rare largesse of fleshmashed to pulp on rocks —such 'palatable human refuse'.They too migrate, ten million scuttles,on their yearly prickly walk from forest to sea.But roads are cleared for them, cars parked,as the needful eggs pull them down —a crimson shawl over grinning cliffs.

We make space for the moon-mad crabs,their urgent surging back to sea.A wooden shell, a thin plank hull,is no match for a carapace.That homely self that movesand so always has just room enough.

P. S. Cottier

*Australian Government Department of Sustainability, Environment, Water, Population and Communities website

The boat people of the New England Highway

An animate darkness deeper than understanding Rain from the day of creation     when belief filled the oceans swamping and exposing the reef we had become Windscreen wipers at hummingbird speed hovering above surrender I gripped the wheel as if it turned the earth the gelid breath of spines attuned to survival Our metal carapace a reed-thin membrane between parallel worlds of dry security within gale-force immolation beyond Neon squints room at the inn a sanctuary of function and budget undressed bricks food without flair the next day limned with our hope for better weather waited the other side of the pillow For others launched upon an unbarded sea of troubles welcome is uniformed the inn is surrounded by razor wire hope is finite and days innumerable threat grows inward Paul Scully

The politician

The more he spoke, the more it seemed,his lines were