curled up in a dead world
now underground, stroking

brontosaurus’ long, fictional neck
& you can’t help but see

yourself in the kitchen light’s
reflection on the screen. He eats

leaves as you watch his wise eyes
watching for predators blink

& the wind tears away his name
like flesh, heating and cracking

apart his bones
& you’re sad, for a little while,

or at least until you remember
the papers your father signed

at birth proving you
were something and that

that something was his
& besides, this is Australia,

a country built on digging up
skeletons so even if they lose

the paperwork your bones
will always be your bones

& when they come back for you
because some southern-crossed

lover needs unleaded to floor himself
into the same tree his dad

did all those years ago killing
himself & passengers, well,

then you’ll roar

Brendan McDougall

Brendan McDougall studies literature at the University of Melbourne and is from Ballarat.

More by Brendan McDougall ›

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