The trees, that do not belong to me, on the hill,
that does not belong to me. This is my premise.
The people in a house that grew like a mushroom.
But with shattering noise! Oh yes! Look across
at us as if we have always existed - just like this.
But indeed we have not. And will not. No.
When I call on my airy familiars, they come to me, more
insubstantial than they used to be, but still. They come.
With – lightsome tread. Through landscape. Sometimes
in the guise of an animal or bird. Sometimes … sometimes …
… exactly what is about this city that I cannot
quite – quite – quite – dislike?
They are looking at me! The people! As they pass!
I can’t grasp, even with exhaustive intuition, Asian
postures, ways of being. I can read the Australians,
some with an Asian cast of feature. Some not.
A grandmother – I can tell that much – a grandmother
trots past flat-footed, the baby jogging on her back
stealing the look of me. All saved to file, on her hard drive.
The woman in the beer garden in the black hat … scribbling …
… scribbling. As she steals me, so I steal her.
The man (with his bitter mouth) has gone. Up!
And left! Taken his chance, picked his time.
So I would not notice him going. Although
I notice him gone. He is gone out as far as I
can imagine to the place where he lives his life.
The place that intersects with this. I am bold today.
I am imagining lives. Lives! Three whiskeys down!
Writing a poem – as if it is allowed! – thrumming with
the courage to impose – and claim – what is always mine!
—Jennifer Compton
____
from Parker & Quink, (Ginninderra Press, 2004)