Bernice Chauly, Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia
For Ali Cobby Eckermann
1.
no land, no country
no language, no people
the trees linger, and the sad, sad
land is red with blood and dust
2.
we used to shoot them blackies for sport, they said
now old, they hug you and thank you for your words
we didn’t know, we didn’t know, they said
sorry, so very sorry, they said
3.
at night we sit outside
the two eucalyptus trees shake in the wind
one looks like a witch, a beady nose, looks wicked
we hear the owl, it is close
4.
after the Coorong, we drive to Strathalbyn
for coffee, and the white man, he sees you
and shouts so all can hear – you stupid cunt
don’t you know where to park, can’t you read?
5.
we drove onto the next road, and there they were,
kangaroos, big and small, hopping beside the car
and then, in unison they jumped over the wire fences
like soldiers, they followed invisible lines, into the forest
6.
over chicken and vegetable curry, you wept when
the aunties started singing, songs you remembered
in your language, they spoke of the earth, of the skies
and stars, and spirits, and the night was still, with song
7.
i found you in that shop on Rundle Mall, you had just
tried on a grey jacket ‘for New York’ and you were in a
corner of the changing room, wailing, wailing, for your
brother had just been found dead, in a hospital shower
8.
we thought he was singing, they said, he was fine that
morning when you visited, but the song was not a song,
it was a cry for help, we didn’t know, they said, we thought
he was singing, but no, you said, he was singing for his life
9.
we saw two eagles that day, the forest of tall, dark trees, on both sides
and before that, a white, gnarled eucalyptus forest, so ancient,
i imagined fairies, and saw dark figures running, the sunlight in shafts,
piercing the silence, the dry, arid earth, and onto the long, long road
10.
at night in the Coorong, we sit by the campfire and we hear stories
about the stars, the universe, and how it was created, we see the children
rapt, their faces open, the wood crackles and fiery embers create sparks
that rise into the air, the sky is clear and the moon shines her light on us
11.
the night you drive into Adelaide to stay with mum, i am alone,
i build a fire, i smoke joints, and see the witch tree sway in the wind, i
hear sounds i do not know, and when in bed, much later, i hear claws
on the metal pipes, i open the door leading out, and i see it, the possum!
12.
i cannot write in this broken land, but i can grieve for a land that is not
mine, i cry for you my sister friend, for all that has been lost, for
all that you have lost, and for your pain, and all the others like you, this
land is broken, your broken land, your broken hearts, this broken country
13.
we drank tequila for old times’ sake, two shots, and the man in the blue shirt
drank with us, then we got into the car, the seats hot from the sun,
and we drove down the road, this ancient earth,
this land so old, from the beginning of songs, from when the dreaming began
14.
and every day, the view, the yellow and brown, and ochre, i want to
be a bunny, then fly through the trees, and dip low, the land so wide, such
big sky, the trees like white stone totems, the wind hot, so dry, parched,
i imagine antelope, wildebeest, lions, and then the kookaburra sings.
Reprinted with permission.
Published in Incantations/Incarcerations (Gerakbudaya, 2019).
Bernice Chauly is an award-winning novelist, poet and educator. She has written seven books of poetry and prose and has taught creative writing and literature for over 20 years. She lives in Kuala Lumpur with her two daughters.