This is really a mash-up of two recipes, with the ultimate aim of
providing Sufficient Nutrients in a single meal. The first is Jack
Monroe’s Spinach & lentil daal, from their second book; the second
recipe is the Epicurious Indian spiced eggplant recipe. Both have been customised by me, for me.
Long recipe is long, so I direct you to the dreamwidth write-up.
Tonight, I dressed my son in astronaut pajamas,
kissed his forehead and tucked him in.
I turned on his night-light and looked for you
in the closet and under the bed. I told him
you were nowhere to be found, but I could smell
your breath, your musty fur. I remember
all your tricks: the jagged shadows on the wall,
click of your claws, the hand that hovered
just above my ankles if I left them exposed.
Since I became a parent I see danger everywhere—
unleashed dogs, sudden fevers, cereal
two days out of date. And even worse
than feeling so much fear is keeping it inside,
trying not to let my love become so tangled
with anxiety my son thinks they’re the same.
When he says he’s seen your tail or heard
your heavy step, I insist that you aren’t real.
Soon he’ll feel too old to tell me his bad dreams.
If you get lonely after he’s asleep, you can
always come downstairs. I’ll be sitting
at the kitchen table with the dishes
I should wash, crumbs I should wipe up.
We can drink hot tea and talk about
the future, how hard it is to be outgrown.
15.1.17 - like grandfather, like grandson. I don’t know why I didn’t get a photo of my dad (uncle to the guy in the bottom pic) as well, it was like looking at a time-lapse photo of the same dude in three stages of life.
Like life in a moon colony, nobody walked
so we were alone exploring the resort
when we found ourselves at the visitors’
camping ground. There was no perimeter,
no centre, no solid ground; the entire place
a threshold. Tents bleeding out
in all directions, the rock
the only anchor, everything swaying
and shimmering, in danger of falling
away into the desert; the dingos patrolling,
padding through the scuffed children’s playground,
looking for scraps. Within minutes I knew
a dingo took that baby. Then grief grabbed me
with its jaws. This country could not
countenance a woman who did not collapse
on prime time, who would not unstitch herself
in front of strangers. A woman at her very edge.
A woman straining to hear God’s voice, blank
and waiting – what should I do next?
The night sky was the most elaborate
I had ever seen, the world seemed to turn
inside out when the sun went down. The sky
illuminated, a map of meaning, the earth
dark and still, slumbering like an exhausted child.
Published in Best Australian Poems 2015. Lisa Brockwell has posted all three parts of Uluru on her website
Because the night you asked me,
the small scar of the quarter moon
had healed - the moon was whole again;
because life seemed so short;
because life stretched out before me
like the halls of a nightmare;
because I knew exactly what I wanted;
because I knew exactly nothing;
because I shed my childhood with my clothes -
they both had years of wear in them;
because your eyes were darker than my father’s;
because my father said I could do better;
because I wanted badly to say no;
because Stanly Kowalski shouted “Stella…;”
because you were a door I could slam shut;
because endings are written before beginnings;
because I knew that after twenty years
you’d bring the plants inside for winter
and make a jungle we’d sleep in naked;
because I had free will;
because everything is ordained;
I said yes.