after the fires, i cannot
after the fires, i cannot
get enough of the smoke
from your smoking ceremony into my hair
eyes, lungs coming up my legs snake tendril
hands grasp smoke desire to
cleanse. me, us, them, we, this
coast. it would be the Indigenous way
is what Conjola Bendalong Yatte Yattah
Jerrawangala Wandandian Malua
Broulee Mogo Nelligen: so many
this summer, my past south
and present coast, beg us. Here, down
on one knee, gasping for us to hear
this fire ready country, fire adapted
fire endemic, pyrophytes grown
to it – moth to a flame
is a cliché – eucalypt to a flame
is this country my ancestors landed on
dangling their fancy convict chains, millstones
around their necks, their ploughs and thick
German bread. bringing European hearths
to a land of fire long owned (on landing
we somehow overlooked that concept). now
we avoid, ignore, perilously override, choose
to forget. adjust our paradigm
‘she’ll be right’, not so innocently
snigger at racist rednecks while ignoring
deeper knowledge, that word snigger
s… n word – just what is the root there?
we fill the halls with climate deniers on voting day
only to sweep them out and convert the evac
centre to disaster recovery, fashion
hippy earth mothers into retro beach
style – just what is Boho anyway? all that
macramé does my fuckin’ head in. nothing
is ever that easily pale pastel washed, soft
toned keeping it neat, keeping it nice, no
discomfort, no defacing the
paradigm as we shift the cliff edge
just that little bit further away
until too late. i cannot
get enough of the smoke out
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