Kimberley Poem Writing

The days creak by. Baking cakes in the morning heat. Today's variety was carrot without a recipe. My mind is slow, wavering with silliness like the heat waves in the distance. It came out of the oven, melted in our mouths. Happy little dances I danced, standing by the door with the days hundredth sweat moustache beading upon my skin.

"A message from the old people through the flames of a bloodwood campfire. that too much town life, hunting in the supermarket, deep-freeze fishing and grog drinking ain't no good for your spirit. keep the homeland movement firing..." -Pigram Brothers

Bare feet on the dusty ground
With spiders and quolls, stirring in the rustling grasses.
The view through the doorway is one I would keep.
As the afternoon wind tousles gum tree leaves
The branches drooping just enough to say
you, you can look at me.
Close my eyes on a dry creek bed.
In the shade, cowering away from the critical sun.
Ants. Red ones. Tiny black ones. Green ones in a line on the trunk of that pale tree.
Lighter. Just me with the sound of birds calling.
This beautiful land. Mysteries I'm happy to know little pieces of.
The ants carry their dead. I don't know where.

My hair's grown thick and wild.
Curling erratically with the early morning humidity.
I try to pull it from my face.
Keep it from clinging to me.
I look out the doorway and all I see
is this place. Walking for 24 years before the power of space finally sunk into me.
In a country that will never be mine.
8 months wandering doesn't offer full belonging.
"I might fall in love with my country again, that's the only thing that could happen." A lie, one dancing on the string of a baby's star mobile.
One that such tiny fingers were miles away from grasping.
I think of home and dart to that South Bellingham beach. It has a name I can't remember.
And in the colder part of the year, no one is around. Only me, islands in the distance. And hidden, beautiful creatures. My fingers dip into grey water.
Being who I am now. I'd take my clothes off and wait for the thrill of my head going under.
Sense of space. The area my body fills.
Treading water lightly. My hands cupped full.
Full moon or the tiniest remainder.
It pushes and pulls. Dips my energy until I dance barefoot down a dark stretch of Chuckanut Drive Road.

(September 16, 2009)