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ARTS AND CULTURE

The moment of not knowing wishes do not come true

  • 14 July 2015

Wishbones   It turns from scrubbed white to dead-bone yellow on the sill above the sink A furcula fetched from the chicken’s neck for a game as old as the Etruscans   It sits like a water divination rod above the taps, rocks when we touch it Clippity-clop, rocking-horse-rock on two solid sled-like arms   I will put my pinky round one arm, she’ll do the same to the other Our knuckles will graze, purchase will slip on the smooth old bone   Thumbs will hanker to push against the head that binds the two arms But our mother says, wait, it won’t snap, too young, too flexible   Competition is repressed: we hide our wishes, daughters of the one mother Maybe it is the same small wish   For now we do not know wishes do not come true, whether we win or not We do the dishes and watch another Sunday pass, another wishbone appear   Mothers have a rare wisdom: a second chance joins the brittle bone on the sill Still, how did she ensure we shared the wins?     Coming home

Having someone wonder where you are when you don’t come home at night is a very old human need– Margaret Mead

It is as late as a dead comedian The last hill is Sisyphean Margaret Mead was right   He waits on the top step Moggie playing statues: Bastet, goddess of Egypt His bib is moonlight white his matching paws are poised on the edge (why isn’t he called Socks?)   The cat gets through the door first populates the dark hallway mews hello, you’re late   we are home   Tathra Wharf   The sky is postcard blue and he notices just how picturesque so she goes over, strikes a pose against the weathered railings in a gap between the fishermen feet nudging a bucket of bait (smells don’t come out in photographs) Then the usual: smile, cheese, fidget, smile, silent click, capture   She walks across historic planks head butting the breeze off the cliffs reaches into his hands to check the image on their phone – her grimace says it all but that wind has taken her hat and he is speaking loudly to her racing back Words caught before they blow away: photoshop fixing smile

Jane Downing, who teaches at the Albury-Wodonga campus of Charles Sturt University, has had poems published in