We are a family of Cleanskins. My father survived

 WW2 unscathed (except, my mother said, he’d ‘changed’).

My mother stitch-free after six pregnancies — whoosh,

  all of us delivered out the right door (except the fear that

    closed that door). My brothers un-conscripted, woundless,

  up at 5am, milking the cows (bellowing for their lost babes).

 Our house untouched by fire that came right to the fence

  (the paddocks forest-cleansed, cart tracks knifed deep

    into hills, a lone canoe tree up the back). My sister’s skin

  so flawless (and yet, and yet). Those townsfolk so quick

 to heal/judge, uncomplaining (like animals licking in secret).

   Those school-children unmarked (except the cuts on the

  boys’ palms, the silence of the pants-wetters). The still

   thick of the pine plantation (muffled). The pregnant

 (un-spayed) cats dumped at the dairy. The dogs and

   bulls (intact). The sun shining. Grass green in winter,

    hay in summer. The smell of silage on the wind.

     The nothing is wrong (it must be you). Not a single

              trace. I’ll give you something to cry about.