Turns out you can still pash in a graveyard
at 28, though by now my fear of spooks
has faded into a more realistic fear of people.
There’s a torch in my back pocket. Her hands
smell of graveyard moss and bug repellent
flush with riverside humidity; mosquitoes hunt
us hot and damp on the edge. Figures scuttling
in the dark. Later, the sceptic tour guide explains
how we interpret threats in our peripheral vision:
shapes in the rear-view could be anything,
but they’re probably not the undead.
Right now, we’re waiting for the tour to start,
deciding whether holding hands is a thing.
The night this country tallied its paper yesses,
that’s what we were finally saying to each other.
This week was the first time someone yelled
a slur from a car since I was a teenager.
‘If only people would mistake me for a boy
when it’s convenient,’ she said, not taking
her hands off me then, or now, even when
we hear a branch crack, or blink at torches
fluorescing the trunks of gum trees.
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