They hung me upside down
by the tail, molecules starched—
those Irish trackers, old-timers.
I was tribal, a trophy locked
with rigor mortis.
They forced my abysmal jaw,
my cough worthy of attention.
I would make no apology for stray
dogs who seized their pregnant ewes,
if I could speak.
Dingos took blame for the cull.
I’ve seen the You Tube videos
of Benjamin calibrating hunger
to a charcoaled thirl, eyes barred,
his hectored shadow.
How in God’s name they shot a pack
of us, huddled with hungry cubs.
Sold a batch to Europe as domestics.
Kept me— as mascot, emblem,
field study, postage stamp,
(stuffed on a taxidermist’s plinth.)
When the last in captivity died
without too much fuss—
they dumped him in a paddock.
Have I slept for a week already?
A finger puppet in snow, a Visitorian?
The post identity theory and cli-fi symposium
may never make amends. Before Twitter
or the allegory goes viral
I’ll escape into ferneries, veils of Time
from the experts, bureaucrats, Lake
St Clair’s crags, from grotto to Sphinx,
jerking all the levers—till they
vanish from my world.
1 December 2013