In the mornings, black palms
as I’m hauling the cooking wire.
That’s what ash does
with its aftermath
and I would hold it,
but it washes by.

The Grandmother is doing all the taking-care
and sometimes she is sick of it.
When the power heaves back on
we are liquid like this morning’s butter
and she hears it as a running tap.

Under the yard’s only tree
is an archetype of tree
dozing like a camp dog, bristling its Christmas tinsel
and the children are running through the afternoon,
wasting their fireworks.

She is dropping dots on canvas in an old rhythm
when a sorry takes hold and we wet our faces.
I don’t know how many the sicknesses
and I never will.

The Daughter is scanning those bubbles in her breast
in an Alice Springs clinic
and they are not quiet.
The Son was walking a long way without water this sadness,
but it wasn’t long enough.

A psalm on a yellow door I’ve never rung the bell of.
Corrugations in the red road say loud
no speed is right.

Every night is a new form of sleep
with the Grandmother on the outside
because forms roam live to dark snatching
and we should worry
and don’t worry, our blankets lap
and this world is rust-coloured.

Joan Fleming

Joan Fleming’s most recent poetry collection is Failed Love Poems (2015).