Bathroom at 4am
Falling into the mirrorso many pieces
showering her nakednesswith light.
Fragments creatinga sharper truth
her ruined facea Picasso construction
flung between wallsin a windowless room.
The hour before dawnwords unspoken
on the brinkof becoming.
She considersthe quality of darkness
past and presentbriefly one.
Then picks upthe pieces
begins brushingglass from her hair.
Looking for Sarah — Box Hill CemeteryFor my grandmother
Years later I'm following pathsthat your daughter trod before me.
She fled to this place nightly,like a homeless ghost you said.
Just fifteen, talking to stone angelsto shut out the voices in her head.
By the time the men in white coatstook her away, locked her up,
she had absorbed the moon, seenher belly grow. Moon child she told
the nurses. See it glows from within.But there was never a baby. At last
I find you, Sarah, a cross on a map.No marker, not even a shrub, no
roots taking in the goodness of you.Shadowed by elaborate memorials
I push away disappointment. Perhapsa farmer's daughter wanted only this.
You were found by a neighbour, goneto your God as you had wished,
just stepped out of the bath as iffrom the womb,
long hair free of its pinswarming your skin.
The copper stick — 1941
I knew its touch on my skin so well,hard, unforgiving. On Mondays I dippedit into the soupy swirl, hooked a barley
sugar twist of sheets bubbling out ofthe copper and hoisted this steamingmass into concrete troughs for rinsing,
then through the wringer, its rubber rollersperished and possessive. I would unscrew,lift, release and re-assemble, as mother
had instructed. It was wartime, evenchildren had to do their bit for victory.All the while I sang the songs my dad
and I had sung before he sailed to war.Mother got a job as a cook and whenwe left for Tasmania the copper stick
travelled too, although someone elsedid the hotel washing. Sometimeson the maid's day off mother took me
to the basement laundry. If she thoughtit about time. The stick was used once toooften. She could not find a replacement.
The Beauty of Xiaohe* — a photograph
Laid out with care this woman liftedfrom a dry river-bed. Here is deathbut also preservation: turned-up
nose, high cheekbones, long lashesfringing her sunken eyes. Her haireven after 4000 years a springy
mass of foxy brown, spilling overone shoulder. I imagine her maidbrushing its length, the crackle of
electricity as the woman smiled,her mouth wide, generous, madefor smiling. Guarding her scalp
a lambskin bonnet tied with a bow.She is swaddled in a woven cloak,fur-lined boots protect her feet.
Beside her a child staring, closeto tears, hands bunched into fists.Someone lifts a camera,