Published in Edition Three (2024) as part of the Tales of an Unforgiving Land column.

Note: ‘Ngabang’ means ‘mother’ in Butchulla language.

Mutts and dingoes fuck until

they aren’t so different and both

give us fleas and flash their teeth in return for

Scraps

with the other kids

in a supermarket parking lot

that wasn’t supposed to be here

now I’ve got a hole in my leg where

I can see right through and thread

the needle

Lost

in hay that feeds the brumbies but

we can’t eat that stuff the same unless

they force it down our throats

again.

We all remember.

That dusty funeral

where those roses look wrong and the girls

wrung their fraught little 

HANDS OFF.

But it’s just easier not

to go and feel because I’ve

been holding it so long

that droplets start to sneak

through the grouting before a burst

Damn

girl,

This isn’t the right one!

How many times?

How much longer?

Hands on a mirror trying to

recall whether I used to

be able to say it right

Ngabang, Ngabung, Nar’bung

Like my tongue

would just know how to dance

In time

wounds will heal over with

barely a mark well it’s been over

A hundred thousand kids’ worth

of forgetting.