Impossible Gift

This is not the smoke of colonial rod

of scarred encampments, the prodding stick,

of the fires where infants were tossed.

This is not the smoke of the gift of grog

of paternal authority, of children stolen

of lubras raped, of smug denigration.

This is not the gift of denied genocide

of suicide in the white washed cell

of herding and terror and shrieking mothers.

No! This is the gift of purification

This is the gift of cleansing the spirit

This is a blessing, an impossible gift.

Clean Hands

Clean Hands

They hover, tentative at first, these hooded

birds pecking for sustenance on the shore

of the South China Sea.

Massahh papa? Foot massahh? Pedicure papa?

You buy? They show me their beads and bangles

their packets of crinkles, chips, their cold drinks,

their pineapples on sticks. They carry their hopes

across their shoulders, these slight pecking

Vietnamese ladies.

Massahh mama? Foot massahh? Pedicure mama?

Just over there a plump golden dame from WA

is showing pictures of her grand house,

with gilded bathroom taps, her awesome garden

and swimming pool to these slight creatures.

A lot of work from hubby and more than a little

luck honey, if you get my drift? She winks.

How much is your massahh for an hour sweetie?

You have to be kidding me. I'll pay you half.

I hope your hands are clean.