On Hold, &, THE STUFF I'M MADE OF by Lucia Moon
On Hold
that evening as I washed the dishes
Presley was sweeping the floor reluctantly
she felt proud
her meal had been a success although
the hall was brimming with black smoke
the salmon was crisp
the Mexican salad of tinned corn
perfectly dressed
I was wondering what to do
(not art)
in the syrupy world that we possessed
(feigning
aeroplane crashes and inflation).
my mother called to say
my aunt had cancer
(pancreatic)
and that it was important to have
a good job
one that would treat me right,
like the union
they paid 25 an hour
but you could have 12 days of paid
sick leave annually
now that was a lot of money.
Tiny Iota was missing
Tiny Iota was a grey and white cat
who lived on my street
he wasn’t tiny he was huge
and fluffy and liked to loiter
under the parked station wagons
lick the gas from his lips
and stare.
I discovered one afternoon he was gone
someone had plastered
WHERE IS TINY IOTA
cat shots on the electrical poles.
I was humming
on my walk home from the café
I stared at Tiny Iota’s face
in black and white inkjet
I swore I saw him yesterday
so I whipped out my phone
and sent a message
to the owner.
hi, I saw Tiny Iota yesterday
on the backyard wall in Paints Lane
on the Vic Park side of Rose Street…
the Western side
that warms my room
before the winter sets in
and I shut
my shagpile curtain.
the owner replied
gee thank you, I’ll get by
after work and try to find him.
so he went on looking
and Presley said she thought
she’d move to Glebe
I told her to go running
down by the harbour
down where the oil
from the glass factory swam
like a mirror on top of the water.
I used to ride my bike
along that creek
thought I’d ride my way to something
but I’m sitting in bed
writing poetry
on Friday I called Centrelink at four thirty
and they put me on hold
for two and half hours
before I realised I’d be waiting
til Monday morning
THE STUFF I’M MADE OF
I’m trying to remember
the stuff I’m made of.
Deep prism of peacefulness
brought on by walking
gone bush.
It’s like a mauve blue
where the strongest pull of the river
goes unerring.
where eucalypt leaves
glide and scatter
and light refracts
on muddy particles eddying.
It’s cool in this place
and when the quietness breaks
suddenly, in shattered splash
for the presence
of someone else,
it is difficult
to retreat once more
within that cavern
of coolness.
A dark cloud hovers
at my peak
and underneath flows
my father’s ashes.
I remain steady
as long as these
my mother and father
encase me.
Tall, bleeding tree
grows from my gullet
to the sky.
Its roots are the worms
of my stomach
and my pancreas
is nurturing.
It grows
black and erect
like Umberto’s shadow
striking on the storming night.
Flashes of lightening
leap at this tree
and my eyes are rolling psycho.
This is the constant ecstasy,
a mouth wide open
in penetration.
I’m made of hurting.
See this hurting
everywhere?
Each day a fresh ache
arises as another
passes.
And no thing awaits
to take its place
but an underscore of mellow bass –
my longing.
It’s a changing sorrow growing
and it’s changing,
it’s changing,
it’s changing.
Deep, undulating snowfield.
Red breasted robin
skittering feverishly
across the face.
Snow gums, black tea
and smoke. This is
a subtle signal for help.
If I’m too calm
the words don’t rise up
outta me.
Tiny waves roll in from the sea
into the estuary
where ‘us and them’ exalt
in swirling laughter.
Sugary
how can the salt water
be sugary?
Because of childhood
because of what we grow to love
as sweet babes yarnin’.
Oh, look –
here they come.
Executive Producers
Daniel Henson
Karolina Ristevski
Elliot Cameron
Sue White
