a frangipani tree outside
the kitchen window;

the sound of the ocean at night
as I wait for sleep;

a photograph of Sicily
on the bedroom wall –
the distant outline of a volcano;

a tawny frogmouth
living in the garden;

an ibis which has wandered
inside from the zoo;

my father talking to me
about the large painting
on the living room wall

asking what I can see in it,
what I make of the colours,
the shapes, the lines.

I am hesitant, unsure
what it is he wants
me to find. It is as though

he is trying to tell me
something about himself
that I can never hear.

A frangipani tree
outside the window
that I will never see again.

2. period of being away: an absence of several
weeks.

You leave your shoes
sprawled out

on the floor.
I come home
late at night
and stare at them,
abandoned there,
and wonder:
who is this giant-footed
man I live with?

Your jacket
in its military style
on the dining room chair
makes me think
you are a soldier
visiting on leave –
everything rushing
towards separation.

My heart constantly
reaching out to you
across oceans.

3. failure to attend or appear when expected:
an unauthorised absence will result in a failing grade.

We were expecting
someone with authority
who would tell us the logical
way to go about things;
the approach that would lead
to the most fulfilling outcome.
But no one turned up.

Every time there
is a knock on the door
I expect it to be him.
My heart lifts,
every time.

Even though it is always just
a Jehovah’s Witness,
a candidate for the Local
Government Elections
or a representative
of one charity or another.

 Elizabeth Allen

Scenes from the Olivet Discourse

1. Back Paddock

a bag of mixed lollies at the edge of the desert
three inbred siblings with beaks  
a fight for milk bottles in the wreck of a car
everything comes down to elbows
Jethro picking non-stop at the crust of the dash
what was once such a biblical ride    
I’ll fuckin whack ya Jethro like dad did that time
in the lymph glands remember that
as the radio crackles like the exploding gum
bursting in their open mouths  
a meteor descending with a Betadine glow
amid broadcasts of the Death Book
like some morbid throwback to the drive-in days
as recounted by their blustering dad
the hundreds of women he supposedly laid
imprinting them with leather grain vinyl
just a red Starburst in a clammy hand
Jethro climbs to the top of the bike jump
out there where he launched the roadkill’s guts
his brother and sister can get fucked
pissing down the ramp just to watch the stream
choosing a new rock to throw back at them
fooling around with each other when he’s not there
fumbling all the family shit

2. Botanicals

one bulb strapped to the back of each head
every family wants to go their own way
the bowls of our skulls will make perfect pots
the window of survivability is broken
put your trust in deep sleep therapy
expect the colour of a licorice plague
here comes another of those Learish storms
welcome the negatively buoyant swan
there is no us & them there is only &
parents should have to bury their children
no one expected jousting to make a return
or the Tyrannysauras of distance
the intickable untockable annihilation  
the helicopter culling has begun
dogs are sniffing out cancer and spiked tofu
zombies escaping from the Allergy Institute
hear now the primitive streak of our Lord
all people want to do is save Christmas
our dollars will soon stay local forever
and everyone’s bios are forthcoming
witness the divinely violent weather event
with all the shadows of a manta ray hot spot
think general rule of thumb and tall soft stems
the pointed end of the bulb should be up

3. Meteorite

it turns the face of the barn fed owl
calls the chill of grandpa’s ghost
the cabbages glow as the bulb comes down  
it plays the reeds in the smokeless marsh
shining like satin flung out from the roll
and the world is khaki and shadow
and the world lies pickled beneath its milk
the holler and the hoot and the cradle
he catches its voltage skipping the river
finds it boiling beyond the blackberries
it knows no future and no secret stars
plays no hint of an alien broadcast
he collects it with a pair of salad tongs
shows it the first of his magic tricks
he sniffs it for clues of its galactic journey
wraps the egg in a tea-stained cloth
he knows there are enemy ships in the bay
and Mama’s blisters are getting worse
he hides it in the belly of a gutted frog
that fizzes from the mouth then explodes  
together they elope to the chicken coop
he reads it Gilgamesh and tales of pharaohs
Mama is drunk and the bugle sounds
it is the great sleeping god of the age

4. Tidy Town

paddocks of hay bales as neat as jam rolls
or stacked like lamington fingers
here is the spire and here is the steeple
the committee waits and winces
butterflies trained to thread the air with welcome
the cemetery cleaner than a private school
green courts forecasting a new age for tennis
every barbeque light operational
there is a standing arc of débutantes
and the cops’ three piece big band
a bugle misfires at the one minute warning
flushing out the syphilis rabbit
an argument about whether to oil the windmill
or to let it complement the silence
the fake bible study in the fake rotunda
thrashing out the book of Revelation
the owl says who the pussycat says me
the breasts of the mayor’s wife collapse
everyone struck by mobile phone blindness
and the irrelevance of loyalty points
it is too late to cancel the judging panel
nothing more than an organised slum tour
past the decorated tree that killed the teen
four horsemen in the avenue of honour

Nathan Curnow

VFGA

Santa Maria di Castello, Genoa

I cannot paint to save my life, but I will,
ex voto: in fulfilment of the vow.

Who knew you could bargain with a ghost?
I’d give anything, we say, but give up

nothing of any worth. So I gave up
all together, and got nothing in return.

But I made it mine. When I walk in the garden
among tall pines and low flowers,

there is an absence, but I pay it no mind.
That’s part of the agreement. Gulls cry out

over the bay, a bird – hidden – chitters to itself,
the early morning mist, pink in the distance, hovers

above the sea’s immaculate horizon,
while traffic and trains race by

in the morning rush to get ahead.
Such things matter little in this afterlife.

To say I gave up on living wouldn’t be true:
it’s the other way around. At times,

it feels like freedom, but then it’s just a fact
of existing like anything else that dies

or wears down or simply changes
into something else, somewhere else.

My promise was to live if I lived
and not be any of those other people,

the ones I once believed in.
Who cares if I have no skill to render

myself as I am? No one would recognise me
anyway, in my invisibility.

So I have painted this square of wood –
inexpertly, crudely – to tell my story

and acknowledge my good fortune.
Look, in this corner, the vision

of the black Christ – a stand-in for the void
that struck my heart like a viper –

and here, in lurid red, my sickly frame
outstretched on a simple wooden bed.

The room is otherwise empty, the window blank.
It will do. It’s only a reminder, a token

of what really happened, which is simple enough:
I disappeared, then went on living – just as I promised.

VFGA: Votum Fecit Gratium Accepit,
‘Vow made, graces received.’ There, it’s done.

Paul Kane

Arrival Platform Humlet

Jessica L. Wilkinson