that day my dad

does not have rope.

that day we try and

do it with a hose.

rubber lasso

stretched thin

as three bodies.

borderline. net.  
that day we

walk the hose

across the field.




the herd, yellow grass

slogging in slack jaws.

mean sun, regurgitated

egg. cockies watching.
dad out far as line

of hakeas. shadow

of man. mum’s ham

in the sandwich. 
i’m first baseman.

each step, door slam,

crunching limbs.




that day, billy goat’s

staring, got air in his

belly. hair pricks is

filthy erections. herd 
backs behind him.

teeth, bad westerns.

gums dribbling. all

eyes swimming. 
kid cowering

in cage of

nanny’s limbs.




air thick. dad’s barking

instructions. cockies

spewing from ghost

gums. leaves hurling. 
billy’s kicking earth,

nostrils flaring. throat

open, no screaming.

no one’s taking his 
woman. nanny’s

licking shit

from kid’s bum.




that day my dad

charges forward.

yanks nozzle. ‘keep

it taut,’ he’s gulping. 
mum hissing, holds

back. holds line. left

leg, oesophagus. drags

wake. breathless. 
‘fucking hell

jane! can’t ya

fucking keep up?!’




then. mad dash

is mallee of limbs.

dislocating wings.

dust jumps. necks spin. 
sick bleating. tongues,

birds flailing. ears

ringing. sun softening.

throat’s thinning. 
billy goat coming

at me. like a dad with

a belt or a baseball.




that day billy

fakes a lefty. goes

right past me. dad

sees an opening. 
‘go balls and all!’

screams dad,

yanking hose

like throat. 
we’ve got the

nanny on the ropes.

eyes discharging.




but my mum’s down

for the count. the

line is fractured. the

hose, a broken lip. 
the nanny’s got

a slip. she’s taken

it. muscle thick as

porcelain, always 
covered in shit. then kid

tottles over, oblivious.

gives me a little lick.




that day i shoo that kid

away. my dad there trying

to tie a hose into a lasso.

a neck. a nucleic noose. 
‘you two are fucking useless,’

he says, fixing a knot crook

as gut. spaghetti spew cowboy.

‘you some sorta poofta son?’  
mum on ground, hissing,

heaving, grieving with

laughter. stops sudden.




‘you’re a mean old thing,

don,’ says mum, in an act

braver than any man. yet

there’ll be no trophies, no
cover stories, just eulogies.

she helps herself up with my

hand. and dusts herself off,

never reaching for guns.
just stands there staring

with the grace of a bird

that’ll never take flight.




‘son,’ says dad, dropping the

knot that’s a hose, sweeping

his arm out as if for a moment

he’s holding open the cage. this  
world an exponential baseball

that never comes home. and footy

two men spilling into love. and the

guns corroded are lowered. the 
dust almost settled. the billy off

gnawing on grass. then. his smile

thickens. ‘be a man—get that goat.’




and i can’t explain it. it’s a

metabolism. it’s that urge to

shove things into my body.

that need to gag because i
deserve to be empty. a danoz

direct ad where i buy the lie of

hard abs because every day is a

lie, from birth to inception, that
thins and thickens. a toilet bowl

clogging. a bruise on a throat.

a hose that we use like a rope.




so i go like greg inglis . like

duke on the frontier. like a

baseball with the velocity

of a machine gun. i’m 
flying. goddamn rambo.

topgun. that guy making

a woman choke on her own

vomit while he throat fucks 
her on the internet. i did not have

sexual relations… a nuclear code.

a hard-on with a mind of its own. 

before. we take photos.

the kid thin legs thin face.

lured by carrot tops and

outstretched hands. 

snap a few shots then

dad locks them up.

big corroded bird cage.

safe from night fox. 
mum calls this happy

families. her photo-op

crouch, birdsong teeth.




‘what about snakes?’

i say, going balls

deep in fireweed

and feeling frigid. 
‘the only snake here,’

says dad, grinning,

‘is the one in me

trousers.’ 
mum leans close.

whispers, ‘it’s more

like a centipede.’




before. i follow dad.

headed for field. our old

overgrown diamond. first

pitches, first swings of the 
howdy peasants. if only

duke could see my dad.

out on the range in his

finest camo pyjamas.  
old man always said,

‘i need wide open

spaces to thrive.’




‘we’ll never do it

with that,’ says mum

waiting at gate, hands wed.

‘don’t you have rope?’
‘what would you

know, jane?’ says

dad, giving me the

tap. ‘you’re a woman.’
mum looks at me,

at dirt. silent. scream

of gate is split womb.




before. dad says,

‘the kid is easy.

but the mum, she’s

bloody feral.’
he looks through

shed, capillary of

bird cages. comes

up empty. 
in eggshell house

mum once said,

‘keeping birds is evil’




mum peels yellow

gloves from fingers.

holds limp like birds

with broken necks.  
‘tim,’ mum says, ‘are

you alright? there’s

sick round the sink. did

you throw up last night?
‘no,’ i say. swallow back

battery. ‘i’m fine… what are

those marks on your neck?




before. after breakfast.

dad’s eyes out window.

counting magpie’s

stock exchange.
‘you know,’ he says,

‘this’ll all be yours

one day. when i’m

gone, you’ll be rich.’ 
eyes thicken. ‘reckon

you’ll miss your dear

old dad? i know i did.’




‘if we don’t get

the nanny for her

milk,’ says mum,

thumbs thick with suds, 
‘foxes will eat that kid

alive.’ steam rising. scour

her silver pistol. in control,

like a season washed out. 
‘it’s only right.

we’ve got to convince

your father to help him.’




before. last night. get away,

host catriona rowntree, the

entrée. screaming’s friday

night footy. mum’s allowed
leave, but i’m expected to stay.

dad tells me how good his father

was at nrl. robbed of a legacy.

all cause of money. couldn’t make
trip across city. but i know better:

this ten-gallon western! gramps.

the myopic visage of heaven.




outside, looking up at stars,

those watery diamonds.

like the one where a dad

threw a baseball, his tender
uppercut. because i’d seen

field of dreams like dad could

recite every line from true grit.

and me being his favourite, dad 
bought me a glove. ran four hoses

across a field. so every arvo was

breathless, leather beaks clapping.




before. don’t want to look

back. suck on plastic throat

outback. hand thickens, choking

life from smoke. not nightingale’s 
song. but gurgle, eagle’s snoring.

hot bubble. did you know teeth can

sail like baseballs, land in the hands

of sons? forget origin? these teeth
being gold from the bellies of caves.

and then the bellies sit dormant.

waiting. years sometimes.




the only real truth is a throat.

how it opens. how it closes.

examine the fabric of a body.

a liquid fist refracted. teach
it. learn it up. built like a brick

shithouse. a fair go mate so

sick with faith he’s tactically

chucking. see this belly, it thins
like wings but swings like gramp’s

thick fists. ending an nrl career.

gran told me: shipped him off navy.




it’s porcelain’s reprieve, wisdom’s false

exit. when the gurgling scream. the hose

between mum and me. her jumping behind

bedroom door. dad’s arvo vulture lurk.
eggshells shattered on the floor. please

no, never quite wingless. i’m cramming

fingers into the feathers. multicoloured

grated gag hole. porcelain thick lips. still.  
memory of mother’s spaghetti. but it’s me

clogging like ten generations of shit. hear

them. knowing, what that man is doing.



1 In 2009 Greg Inglis, Captain of the South Sydney Rabbitos, was charged with assaulting his now wife, Sally Robinson.

By 2015, Inglis was the front page of Courier-Mail, standing bold as apple pie under the headline ‘RESPECT’.