By | 1 February 2012
My torn blouse and calloused fingers—
these were relics of our adventure.

Eucalypt leaves that clung
in my hair; the long-stale brick
of gingerbread.

The bandages
that wrapped my shredded legs after
we emerged from the bush.

And our picture on the front page.

I also have the same old radio
we went back to—
the one that reported
only cattle prices and water levels, that
put out alerts when the fires arrived,

then, for one hour on Saturday night
played jazz.

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