Domestic Help

My mother wants me to whatsapp her every morning. I do
and I send cash, though I’d rather silken, rose-colored clothing…
Woops, I have accidentally poured the wrong cereal for young sir.
We can always let you go, he swans (his got this from his dad).

Of course he has his penis, which he knows and does not know
at 6. Everyone should mollify, before he escalates.
His sister, too, who is 9 and as beautiful as Miriam Colón
without the comprehension or español – says Yeah.

When Columbus signed his pact with the Queen
she gave him the right to fill her coffers and did not ask
whether Taino parents were beloved of their children
or if the siblings killed one another like European royalty.

My husband whatsapps me about my mom. She is fine
he says, she ate a good bit of rice. With adobo? I wonder.

Posted in 89: DOMESTIC | Tagged

strings

i slice the ribbed pork; blood seeps onto
plastic cutting board. my mum says, blunt
knives are safe. i am not a doctor, but surely

clean amputation is safer than dull chop,
pulling and tugging until the decayed
spine snaps off. in any case, we’ve never

done things the easy way. it will not taste
good if we do not bleed into the mix. the
same secret recipe everywhere – prodigal

child returns. i keep separating flesh
from marrow, but what else can i fix-
ate on if not the uncut umbilical cord.

the day i turned legal, i laid under a man.
watched as he jabbed needles into my
back. the ink says, i will never be you. still

i grow into your skin, the same dis-
jointed smile. still i hoard grievances the way
you hoard old toys. still i have the same night

mares – my fingers, locked on soft flesh
until skin spills open, a mess of seeds
and clots. shhh, don’t let the neighbours

stare. i look down and see wrinkled
hands, spider veins, shaky enough
to fear sharp edges. i do not want

a daughter. i know the iron i used
to defy you will be forged
strong enough to subdue her too.

Posted in 89: DOMESTIC | Tagged

Baby Greys

Weak, wintery sunlight illuminates the fine layer
of dust that has
settled on every flat surface
and
crept into every crevice
like a malignant fungus
hell-bent on colonising my living room.

I pace.

Jeans too-tight over my bottom,
the flesh that wobbles round my middle is as foreign
to me as this wailing,
scrunch-faced
bundle in the rocker.

Utterly alien.

He smells
and the sickly, sweet smell of excrement

curdles and
flips my stomach.

The day s t r e t c h e s
into infinity.
The sonic boom of a plane,
laughing neighbours and the hum of traffic
meld into a symphony of a world
I cannot get to.

The colour
seeps
slowly away and
all is grey.

The seventh cup of tea is tepid
and acrid
with artificial sweetener
that pretends to
melt
excess flesh from my frame.

Babyweight,
is the euphemism,
as if it is a shameful secret
trembling under
loose t-shirts
and stretchy leggings,
desperate not to be found.

I remember when I drunk
my tea hot
and sweet with sugar,
I had idly
stroked my growing bulge,
joyful in my ignorance.

The nappy bag
is sulky with disuse.
The myriad of
confusing pockets
and
insulated compartments are just
too much to bear.
Too motherly.
Too someone else –
who is
coping.

My friends call and call.
I cannot speak
for fear.

There is only so much fakery
I can perform.

The mask of motherhood
is a diabolical one,

I slip it off between these walls,
and it chafes when I am out.

Day fades
into a dull evening as I sit.
Beige and grey,
my brain is
stultified.
Counting the minutes, the hours
until I do it
all
again.

Posted in 89: DOMESTIC | Tagged

Grandmother Ghosts

In country towns
I search the faces of men: young and old
For familiar reflections

My grandmother never lived long enough to know me
Small brown woman, cheekbones look fist-proof in this sienna photo I carry
Where she once walked these streets in her cheap leather shoes
Flat sensible scraps scrimped together from the war effort

She and I both offspring of one rootless tyrant and many gentle wanderers
(like her fading old people, striding tall from camp to camp,
following the seasons like their old folks did)

Her thin dress swishes over our skinny brown body
She was not a lady who lunched
She made the food, set the tables, and cleared them away
But was never allowed to enjoy the fruits of her labour

Her hunger pains stab into me too

I live inside her, cradled between hipbones
An egg inside another (but Mum absorbs most of the shock so I don’t break)
We guide her true, because
They stole her from her mother being able to

We pull at her belly when she takes a wrong turn,
Talks to bad men and listens to their flattery
Do not deliver us to evil!
We rattle our cages, making her sick

But occupation is nine tenths of the law
He squats her womb with no invitation at all
Working her fingers to the bone
A broken back for stolen wages and a belly full of baby

Later on, when Mum smuggles me out
We go screaming into that good night

But the cheek of this man

Just a cheeky slap, here and there, then:
A fist cracks a cheek and knocks some teeth loose
She’s bleeding pus and pissing blood
Not just her own, but the blood of our ancestors
Clots up in her brain

But a woman’s work is never done
(to wash blood out of cloth: scrub with very cold water before using soap)
Laundry wrung out and hung up like white flags of surrender
Sunlight’s the best disinfectant

For shame

He cleaves her liver with well-placed knee
She bleeds pus and pisses blood for the last

Time

Ain’t nothing like pain to bring you back to the present

As we walk the grand streets of this small country town
I look from face to face for echoes of my face without a mirror
Listening out for whether my blood sings or boils

Posted in 89: DOMESTIC | Tagged

The Line

My aunt and uncle are coming
so in their honour I pile the books
against the walls, and hoover,
and stack the stairs with what
was on the floor — the angel oracle cards
with their almost-outsider art
which I bought for a pound and don’t regret,
the sellotape, the pens, the coins,
the takeaway menus,
the random post including
last year’s Christmas cards, the pack
of fridge magnets that haven’t made it
to the kitchen, a betting coupon,
stamps, receipts, the sort of crap
that other people have a drawer for
but I display for some reason
or at least don’t put away
and the reindeer paper napkins
that lie there all year
for when aunts and uncles come to visit
and because the lounge is full
when they’re here
I sit them in the hall,
thinking it’s tidy and sane,
not knowing what they say
on the drive home
about the state of the place, and me.
The line between bohemian
and not really coping is fine.

Posted in 89: DOMESTIC | Tagged

does this count as living (if it’s only četiri mjeseci)?

In the AM
Mama skypes you and me (whispering)
the digits to collect
pare from Western Union.
Transfer like we’re paying a fee
for care, ljubav,
being a family.
As if it lessens what you carry for us,
as if without it
you wouldn’t survive.
(Government burnt your business
a decade ago. You’re almost all
still here.)

Water has been out for a week but
not much leaving now,
except for his trucks.
Gas is skupo and the car leaks,
so we limit usage to twice a day.
(to town for washing
laundry and ourselves,
for feeding Baba
doručak and večera)

In-between one carton of cigarete and the next
you talk about our spending.
Always turning it around and out,
wasting as if we weren’t just pretending
to be cash pare.
You know we’re not bogati either and
admit your needs.

(laugh off lacking)

Around five you sneak out
for some pljeskavica and krompir,
enough to gather us.

(hope your explanation
is set for his return)

Set the sto, tell us our places, serve hrana,
yak about childhood, community, and
the necessity of crna kafa.

Posted in 89: DOMESTIC | Tagged

Act One from Houses: A nightmare

Posted in 89: DOMESTIC | Tagged

During Your Lifetime

for Grandma Perez (1922-2018)

In your backyard, you planted
papaya, mango, breadfruit, coconut,
guava, and banana trees long before I

was born. After harvest, we walked
around the village, delivering a share
to every neighbor. When we returned,

you told me to rake the leaves and fallen
fruit into piles, where I learned that rot
is the other side of ripe, and death, too,

is a kind of blossoming. Decades later,
weeds and invasive vines strangle
your garden. Strangers dump their trash

into the unkept grass. You watch
television all day, as your body,
after hip and knee surgeries, mulches

in a wheelchair. I live thousands of miles
away from your tropical orchard of limbs
and veined roots. Dear Grandma, I

want to remember you standing
amongst the banana trees, the green
hands of their sagging clusters

raised to the sky in prayer, their hearts
opening to a season, during your lifetime,
in which we are always bountiful.

Posted in 89: DOMESTIC | Tagged

Swim/Salvage

When I was a child,
I learned how to float
on my back by imagining
the pool as a bed.

The posture
trained to be soft and yielding.

Nowadays, a child in my country
learns how to drown
with his face on the pavement.

In a moment, he is soaring
through the humid air, over
the cans of his playmates.

When he lands, he slips
on the oil of night and kneels,
is given a cardboard sign as lifesaver,
then takes in the completeness of dirt.

He is salvaged, although no one
in my country wishes to be,
for it is never certain who is saved.

Whispers know that those
who have kept their heads above
the flood use the stiff sacrifices,
prop their elbows on the driftwood.

The water, it runs between
the asphalt,
it carries the stench of a body.

My nation is birthed from this tradition
of typhoons and of men
who shout over torrential voices:
I will save all of you,

Then bless the people
with the power of seeing death:
a new corpse
as a drop of rain, instead
of a monsoon.

If a body can sink so easily,
why should memory be different?

But we have not forgotten.
The way we say goodbye is ingat,
survive, swim well and stay intact,
I hope to see you in the morning light.

Posted in 89: DOMESTIC | Tagged

Saturday August 26 Figueria da Foz

When you see the subsiding sun
lip and slip the west’s salty hip
only those who have not kissed
will not move their tongue
and remember.

Only those who have not lost
will turn away before that
last ecstatic slide
has take this night’s last light.

And those lost will grieve
so deep within their coil
that their tongue is struck
recoiled.

And for those who hold
of course your world is bold
and the leaving sun
a mere slipped disc
and the night a mild serenade.

Oh leaving light
remember that I
was last to remove my gaze.

And if you return
I may turn away
your arrival no match for your leaving.

You saw not my eye
as I saw yours,
you’ve seen it all before
but I, dying light,
kept my eyes where you left
the world this day
and my life.

Posted in 89: DOMESTIC | Tagged

nest (becoming-penguin)

a spirit jumping from the back of a falling star 
onto a baby as it’s being born
gives the baby its breath and spirit

that’s how Murrawarri man, Fred Hooper, tells it
in a yarning circle of land and justice
this winter past, we were
on Gadigal land
never ceded, never ceded

and although this was not my story 
in its telling Uncle shares vital learning
about belonging
to place, to country, to ancestors
and to the future



bending to collect a stone with her beak
she unfolds, fins synching 
to Spring’s snap crackle pop
plink pinky pebble 
build a nest of quartz 

journeying across the ice 
she passes the grave of her great-grandmother
a womb of emperor purple velvet
garlanded with emu feathers from Kupa Piti
passes the bluestone mound 
where her grandmother had buried her placenta, 
brother’s too

shuttling back and forth 
between quarry and cradle 
she heads toward a future present 
bound with the past imperfect



robber Adélie makes a beak-line to this labour of lode
indolent ingrained in-veined habits of theft
captured by the famous naturalist’s panoptic eye
the stealing of another’s home makings
recast as no more than a ‘cheeky’ act



on this patch of clay
in an invisible glade
shaded by old hills 
with witch of Agnesi curves 
it’s where her father was conceived
she also, and later, her brother

here her grandfather’s and great-grandfather’s ashes 
abide in linen cupboard limbo
wrapped in Corsican cloth
waiting to be returned to the earth
(when all has been forgiven)

then they too can join the skulls of our familiars
generations of non-human companions 
who some nights dig themselves out
shaking off the magic dirt
to give us dream counsel 

here the dispossessed have disappeared 
into plain sight 
a diaspora so often scattered far from home, 
far from the bones of its peoples

’Can I have another bone,’ she asks, 
momentarily becoming-human



my home, her home
on stolen land
Kaurna land
never ceded, never ceded

our ash and fat
our blood and bones
our bush wees
our shadow trees
all that we have 
all that we do
all on stolen land



does a spell exist for undoing this?
to shift time and come in the right way
and, like a good guest
leave before welcome is outstayed, or
forge new forms of respectful reciprocity

she and I, we consult the ruins
and cast new hexes
summoning all our mothers, grand and great 
dispossessed 
and driven mad
abandoned
alone
fed by visions, yearning for
Paradise on Earth

she and I, robbers both
stones in our beaks,
seek out accomplices
in networks of nest work
to join the struggles
to repair and restore
relations and land
homes, hearths, hearts

never ceded, never ceded 
never ceded
Posted in 89: DOMESTIC | Tagged

Unfinished Business

I came back decades later to rooms she cleaned
in ruins of a homestead on the River of
my Country. Cast iron gates built on years of
bumper crops, golden fleeces, free labour, swing
open on rusty hinges like pages in an unfinished story.

Native grasses reclaim the popular lined path to
the manor and bluebells grow across unmarked graves
in the garden of the mansion of many rooms that
sucked youth from Black women till there
were no more many hands to make light work
and it all fell apart.

I was a child when Aunty sat me on her lap
and told me of this life I didn’t have to have.
Days rising before the sun, endless baskets
of washing, ironing, mending, tending babies
born to rule, of bent backs, fingers worn to
the bone, floors scrubbed, linen starched, shirts
pressed, broom straws and dignity worn to the nub.

She never told of hungry nights in cold rooms
listening for every creak of the floor, every
shadow passing the door might enter rooms of
sleeping servants. Years later I read about that in
someone else’s archive and raged at what
happened between these walls when I could
afford feminism, Marxism, humanism and every
other ism built on broken backs of last generation.

Lacking her generous spirit that forgave the past
I came back to scream at the walls, rage at the
silence. I walk towards boarded windows, locked doors
and an old straw broom worn to its nub, fifty years
out of her hand never did clean the blood from the
land or the stains from their hands. I come back to
this ground of unfinished business, leave the gates open
when I leave – swinging on rusty hinges.

Posted in 89: DOMESTIC | Tagged

laundered winds

the theft of my brother and me
reduced my mother’s heart
to a faint pulse

her natural right
to nurture and raise taken
as we were ripped away

my brother got moved north
taught to break in horses
before they broke him

i was sent to the city
to clean white houses
with black hands

my connection to land
the dust
i wiped from surfaces

my pain
tucked in sheets swept off floors
and aired out on laundered winds

i knew there was a dream
for me
that wasn’t written by
white men inked
with my ancestors’ blood

my smile shone brighter
than the silver i polished
the day i left
at sixteen

i returned
where black swans nest
where two lakes kiss

no longer interrupted
black feet in sand
my mother’s land
my mother’s embrace

Posted in 89: DOMESTIC | Tagged

Home

He was tall for his age
Or so she thought
Blue eyes in the shape of almonds
Rare but seen before

Brown skin not black
Not white either
Curly hair, soft to touch
All dark with shades of sun

Confident he pushed open the door
Scanning the room
Catching my eye
Then looking away

Jeans and t-shirt
Maybe a bit warm for out here
I caught the sweat on his forehead
As he approached the counter

“Excuse me please
Do you know Mrs Smith?”
He paused, looking
Searching in my eyes

“What’s your business with her?
Who are you?
What do you want?”
Alarm rose in my voice

“I’m her son
She hasn’t met me yet
You see I was taken away
When I was young”

I stopped
Looked hard
Examined him closely
I could not believe

“I know who you are”
I touched his hand
Tears welled in my eyes
“You’ve come home”

Posted in 89: DOMESTIC | Tagged

Please Don’t

please don’t invite him to take
my identity, my right
my culture
please don’t invite him to have
what is not rightfully his
please don’t tell him he’s got the name
of this or that Aboriginal family
so he just maybe connected
just maybe one of those Mob
please don’t tell him
he has
a good heart so
he must be a Blackfella
please don’t tell him
he looks like a Blackfella
so he just might be ONE
please don’t invite him
NOT to be proud of his own culture,
his own identity
please don’t make him
shame of who he is
his own family belonging
please don’t make him feel
his religion is one of nothingness
please DO let him be proud of his own heritage

please DONT let him rip off MINE.

Posted in 89: DOMESTIC | Tagged

because

because of the Cultural Revolution because of the Sino-Japanese war because of the marriage of convenience because of the CCP because of the KMT because of the industrial boom because of the Asian financial crisis because he took pills to sleep because he took pills to work because he gave them the education he never had because his mother peddled mee fen and congee on a shoulder yoke because she threw him coins over the school fence because he hid indoors the next recess because he tapped on his sister’s classroom window to borrow money for food because loan sharks were after them because he almost drowned on his way to school because his mother was a gambler because she lifted some woman’s gold bracelet on a bus because he lied to the cops because his mother was no thief because his mother threw a butcher’s knife at him because he dropped the belachan packet on his way home because she missed and hit the neighbour’s leg because eight of them huddled around that tiny marble table because the food was gone before he sat down because his uncle the educated one the one he must follow took him to school because the uncle stopped coming because his father rode around the island selling black silk no one wanted because his father bought him every book he wanted no questions asked because he used different typewriter ribbons to lodge anonymous complaints against the competition because street vendors showed up when he was fourteen seeking revenge because they said his parents were killed because he went to every hospital and morgue asking if they were dead because the gangsters on his block surrounded him every night because he listened to radio tales of swordsmen and kingdoms because he believed in heroes and villains the righteous and the wicked because he beat up their leader because they kicked his family altar because he started a petition because he was blacklisted and passed over because he left the company because he was moving up because he started playing golf and appreciating wine because he was scouted by the Party because he was no turncoat because his parents fought and his mother’s brain succumbed because she frothed at the mouth and convulsed in Chinatown because he sped there only to see the ambulance leaving because he chased them in his car because he pounded against the door because he saw her on a stretcher because his brother’s kidneys gave up because his brother never said anything because nine days ago his mother died because he sensed she was dying because he chose her obituary picture the night before she died because he walked behind her hearse because it was the first time he cried because he cried for her hard life because he hated many of her habits because he condemned and exalted her before and after death because he placed a piece of her skull in the urn because he carried the joss stick and urn to her resting place because he paid his respects again on mother’s day because today is her birthday because he shouts and doesn’t listen except to Sam Hui songs because he played them to his children because he listened to them as a child because he listens to them now and thinks he wouldn’t want a second life once is hard enough because he asks only for affirmation because some nights he sits silent with bloodshot eyes because I see him flailing violently on dry land thrashing against that god damned essential question because

Posted in 89: DOMESTIC | Tagged

Tea Leaves Stains

Café sitting teacup drinking
Tea leaves tell a story

You know slavery

Poured through generation eyes
Swirling into existence
With each teaspoon stir
Stirring memories not forget
Wadjbella’s took something

Society slavery here

Like domesticating a cat
Or breaking in a wild horse
the gin needs to serve us
that’s their lot was the
catch cry of the day

mission slavery real

A fine cup saucer lace
For the mijiji white woman
Fancy embroidered table cloth
stained enamel mug chipped
for the nyarlu black woman
station domestics locked in

station slavery existed

Our mothers the tea tray girls
Serving cakes, tea and coffee
White uniform in white spaces
Station house or town tea rooms
But not their space to domesticate

Domestics were slaves

Posted in 89: DOMESTIC | Tagged

origami


i am a slice of paper fold me into a clit lick my e d g e s cut your tongue bleed blood with me i am a slice of paper fold me into a house live inside me look outside me i am a slice of paper fold me into a c h a i r take off my b reasts let them chok e i am a slice of paper fold my e y e s into a lighthouse let them see where i can not

i am a slice of paper fold my hands into an altar let me pray
i am a slice of paper fold my intestines into a W a V k N t b O s E e let me eat i am a slice of paper fold my knuckles into a mattress let me sl e e p i am a slice of paper fold my knees into a c in r a w l g naked stamp let them bruise
i am a slice of paper fold my ankles into a suitcase let me
leave
i am a slice of paper fold me into a bus stop make me stay
again
i am a slice of paper fold my
voice into a lightning strike close space open time
i am a slice of paper fold me under the seabed
Posted in 89: DOMESTIC | Tagged

dəˈmɛstɪk

police car in the driveway
bed unmade since yesterday
blue and red lights up the street
not far to fall
Christmas induced abuse
flee home at midnight
leave behind kids and plants to be watered
able to walk but not think
dog hiding in the garage
empty cheque-book empty tank
from suburb to city to sanctuary
soil to cement
each body is its own
owned by your husband, the church, the government
don’t pack the dirty dishes
no more knocks at the door
the coolest room in the house is the bathroom
jealousy overflows in the kitchen
still wearing wedding rings
falling in lust so young
with a man from afar
serve your husband not the house
set off the fire alarms in the kitchen
wear the pearls he bought you
spill gravy on your dress
he will sit at the head of the table
you will take your place to the left
be grateful for the blender, microwave, mixer
don’t touch the paperwork he brings home
the iron keeps his collars hard
you will not be believed
you own unwashed washing
turn up the transistor
smile at his parents
never know his origins
vacuum while he mows
calculate your escape on Sundays after Mass
every day on repeat

Posted in 89: DOMESTIC | Tagged

hey babe how’s you’re day

hey babe how’s you’re day
i tried to roast some veg but
yeah for dinner
ahahaa yeah you know what happened
could you bring cooked chook home?
already left woolise? damn leths
leys
let’s
!!!! fuck
get something delivered

i can pluck yours brow, np
doing mine anyway
that big one midel drive me mad
middle
sorry, keyboard is weird
sorry your day was bad
sorry, god your boss is a shiv
shit
yeah sure i can get thai dont worry jsut get home
muscular?
mass man?
massaman! FUCK!
sorry. the curry up the road

my day was good
yeah a bit suck busy and stuff but
sick but
yeah i should be find
fine.

how far you off?
ill get the kettle
sorry babe sure
see when you get h omen
home.

Posted in 89: DOMESTIC | Tagged

(Kuru Waru) Bushfires Eyes

A response to the appointment of Tony Abbott as Special Envoy of Indigenous Affairs by the newly self-elected Australian Prime Minister Scott Morrison 29 August, 2018.

There are bushfires burning in my eyes
I am burning down the modern world
I am burning your invasion of me
I am burning the image of you
You are all burning on my pyre

I am burning your prejudice of me
I am burning your paternalism
I am burning your policies
I am burning your excuses
I am burning your greed

I am burning your lack of understanding
I am burning your refusal to acknowledge that
I am burning your insults and beratings
I am burning your reaction to this poem
There are bushfires burning in my eyes

My Mother the land is crying
My Mother is crying with beauty
My Mother is crying with sadness
I am crying for all my mothers
We are crying for our land

Our tears are embers unable to quell
There has been no lull in you
There will be no lull in me
I am burning down the modern world
There are bushfires burning in my eyes

Posted in 89: DOMESTIC | Tagged

paper crane

he was locked inside a three-inch tall ivory cage
suspended by a hook that wrapped around a bulletin pin on a blue-felt board above my bed
he sat perched on the small crisscrossed base
vertical bars stretched around his oily body
from top
to bottom
a lone horizontal bar circled the cage closing in
around his skinny neck
sometimes
i saw the bars breath
a dome ribcage encasing the beating wings of a blue and yellow paper bird
when paper crane grew lonely
i would pull him out unfold his body use the creases as a map and try to remember
how to fold him back
some days
i stared too long
i became
that peaceful piece of paper in the shape of a bird
locked inside an ivory cage
wanting to escape
Posted in 89: DOMESTIC | Tagged

Vinegar and Bicarb

She dusts
she mops
she folds

before the dawn
dressed in white
she stands tall
shoulders down

she keeps
our house
our home

clean.

She bakes
she roasts
she steams
makes the place gleam
some more
lest they come
with papers
and combs

with teeth fine
for finding fault
just as they did before
when she was small.

She polishes
she sweeps
she presses
school dresses
like those they
wore in the homes
and on the mish

a uniform
looking swish
with one and all
the same
a wash of white
for clothing
and skin
and tongues
and brain
for pain
now meant to be gone
Though like the dust
it will return.

This is why she cleans.

Posted in 89: DOMESTIC | Tagged

Wirilda

Kokartha women share tales of living
from the land, walking forever
through wattle country

In a good season, yellow balls blaze
with the scent of honey
Wirilda fills the desert air
Husks wait for years, for fire to open
each hard black shell, drop seeds
ripe for sprouting

I go out with the Aunties to beat
the trees with sticks, roast shiny beads
in slow embers. Once pounded
to a fragrant paste, we cook
patty cakes shared warm
from a bush oven

Wirilda trees now grow on farms
to harvest the precious beans
Roasted and ground
for their coffee scent
The dark aroma packaged
as Native Bush Tucker

Wood smoke and honey blossom
still linger on the tongue
the bitter-sweet taste of wattle seed
trapped inside

Wirilda: desert wattle (acacia retinodes)
Kokartha: Aboriginal Nation, South Australia

Posted in 89: DOMESTIC | Tagged