Crop, Suffer, &, Barra Nula by Cassie Ross

Crop, Suffer, &, Barra Nula by Cassie Ross

These poems where written on the land of the Ngarabal people

Crop

Escalating straight for plastic bags of tins & plastic bags

I glance some cute queer sipping coffee

in Jamaica Blue

  track their hair & crop top in a guilty periphery

eyes aching into back and biceps

 

 

All’s still hurting days later

when I glance into a Vinnies

contemplate cute crop tops & short cut jeans

fleetingly

flitting through aisles

fleeing eyes of Catholic volunteers

who look like auntie Dell from Emmaville

I leave with a lime green polo shirt I hate

and know from judgements cashiers didn’t make

 

nothing            really

 

Suffer

In pyjamas nursing cups of tea

(glowing red-green in the Christmas tree pulse)

I keep myself under wraps

— all my new year’s resolutions far too gay to share

  so instead I try to tell you

about this gorgeous python on a hike

a rice-pack sack flopped atop the path

a beam of shining black and fat

and

 

—        I don’t care

 

If I were there

 

I’d take my spade

 

and behead it with the blade

they’re evil and disgusting

creatures I won’t suffer

The next morning,

I’m outside, dew between my toes

and in sagging threads

spins an orbweaver

green & gold & delicate

stitching its xxxxxx

in sunlight & cotton.

 

Over some other too bitter Dilmah I tell you this.


See

that’s okay, I’ll suffer that

but when they make my walls their floors they get the boot.

 

 

When I ask you come to see it though —

 

 — I don’t care

I told you they’re disgusting

& I don’t want to see it.

And maybe I’m angry you boot

so much out of sight

when in the tattered paper of the box-

-ing day hangover flop  

I un-box a feeling — a kind of cotton

& sunlight across the path

we’d thought I was cutting

some sort of web delicate

serpent-sinful

queer

 

and fuck

 

I hope you suffer

 

Barra Nula

We climb out of your mother’s clay

dusted x-trail & down

to the creek, my father’s undergrown thongs

slipping my feet with every step

to spread sunscreen then our garish beach towels

on the granite shoulders shrugging through the water

 

I hop from rock to rock, felsic

grains tear the callous with each bound

all my outgrown in the grass with the thongs on the bank

 

I slip

into the water

a human body

but for pastel boardshorts

elasticed at the hip

 

 

so we climb down Barra Nula

to the falls

feet gouged &

 shins scraped

bloody into hot rock

slipping through                                               the slimy pools

 deliberately

 

 we come to the waterfall

clamber down its wal

slide into its cool

tannin green-brown depth

to be blasted by the spray

you’re still here & we grin to slip elastic

onto the slick bank

dive

and find no bottom

bodies amber through the surface

burnt,

bleeding

soft

and finally

smiling

 

Executive Producers

Sue White

Karolina Ristevski

Daniel Henson

Virginia by Lizz Kuiper

Virginia by Lizz Kuiper

March Editorial

March Editorial