we are thieves of sunlight
mother and i,
soaking in the seasonal crusts
of a south-east queensland winter.
layering shawls upon time
across the brim of our
cinnamon dusted yiman* shoulders.
hand in my hand
dutifully mother shuffles around
this garden playground,
her distant nursing home.
a place where deeply rooted terracotta pots
forge amongst crayon coloured flowers
giving rise to an inquiring ladybug
mountaineering forbidden brown skin
exploring just below the unthreading hem line
of mother’s inherent sculptured legs.
my ears hunt for a serpent butterfly echoing in distress.
my eyes miscarry.
edging toward her beloved garden bed
the one nearest the aviary
before a manicured mattress of flora and fauna
we kneel in faith
mother and i,
but not in prayer.
marigolds, snap-dragons, begonias, daffodils
and blooming pansies lotion my lean desert fingers
gently sailing up and down the oars of their urban throats
i tickle in delight
mother looks on
half interested
half not.
mother begins to scribble with her tongue in a language
i do not understand.
listening with borrowed providence to the spillage of her words
excitement
bewilderment
anger
happiness
frustration
confusion
laughter
judgement
confabulation.
i am jealous.
what a recipe of speech?
you never offered me your language.
never.
not once.
you only occasionally loaned me your aboriginal-english lingo
a thorough concoction of bastardy words if ever there were
along with conversations of the deceased
premonitions of the future
history of the Letters
mother you impress me
always in privacy
always without witness.
now your mind reclines into an abyss of natal sustenance
piece by piece,
your glossary so fertile.
i want to speak my mother’s tongue!
that same crossword dialect for which you were forbidden to voice
post 1945 (Woorabinda Settlement).
softly whispering to my first teacher,
’i know poetry |
i know stars |
i have also grown to
know the sting of bees |.’
mother smiles
muling away the curtains from
her silken aboriginal-afghan eyes.
leaning her ear toward mine
mother sighs with grand certainty
…i gave you all my stories!
sunlight now shifts from one shoulder
to the other
casting shadows over these handwritten notes.
for the lifers of this home
morning tea is now served in the adjacent dining room,
the one without a garden view.
i pocket a chrysanthemum
breaking its defenceless stem
between my fingers
burying seeds
inside my jacket.
still no serpent butterfly in sight.
mother’s memory,
a silent womb
a sacred tomb
a place that will forever unbolt me.
mother continues to hold my hand.
*Yiman / Iman / Yeeman / Jiman / Eoman (Nations / Tribe) Taroom, lower Dawson River region of south-west eastern Queensland.
Image: Ricardo Lago / flickr
