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