killing an arab

1.


Andy was an avid space rock collector. His brother Jack enjoyed books. For their father, Saturdays always began with two-up at the casino.


“Heads!”


And the casino would come alive. Few voices at this time of morn, for most punters have already spent the remainder of both their energy and their money. Fatigue yells out from those who have not yet had sleep in dark beshadowed circles that hang from beneath their eyes. Cola coloured skin surrounds the two-up table and here the father laughs and collects his winnings. Four black chips and we are at home again as a cooking tray is removed from the oven grill by Jack and Andy’s mother. Her husband – their father – is leaning against the kitchen bench, about to ask a question. A fly passes from one spot to another spot on the kitchen window, and so now, their mother begins:


“Andy wants Jack to take him to the beach to look for space rocks.”


“And?”


“Well, I don’t think he should go. He’s too young. They both are. They’ll break something. Too much open space. And that water – there’s just so much of it. What if they drown?”


“Let him take the boy, miracles happen to those who will let them.”


At a beach. Andy paces slowly along the washy-white shore with his head down and eyes verdantly searching for space rocks. Jack sits upon a towel atop a sand dune and reads a book on Ecology.


‘Andy? I’m not quite sure I understand this. Listen – “...until finally two priests wearing leather jackets and black berets overpower him.”’


From the beach, Andy pauses in his pacing and looks up to Jack.


‘Hmm...Maybe its something about religion. You know, like, maybe they mean, like, religion is basically a tyranteous, all-encompassing dictatorial rebel force. I don’t know.’ Jack nods slowly, considering Andy’s comment. And Andy again,‘Why, what’s that bit about?’


‘Um, I’m not too sure. Something about the biological movements of certain ecotypes within controlled cultures over the past two-thousand years. Its sort of interesting. Quite unnatural though - which is ironic, really.’


Andy nods non-chalantly and continues pacing along the shore, searching for space rocks. Jack turns the page of his book as Andy hunches over a small rock glistening in the sun. It is almost the size of his fist when clenched. The clouds move slowly overhead and the shore laps at his feet.


**


A warm southerly sleepwalks past with outstretched fingers trailing softly over the water surface. The sky is blue smeared white. They, the two, are beneath the water, submerged; enveloped. A mirage of voice and bubbles.


“Somewhere is somewhere for some.”


“But nowhere for most.”

oh wretched i, of future see

what i dislike most and know i
will later miss, is how i am
describing my inability to articulate.

like this,
in simple innocence

cold water

there was a time when
peaches were pears and
time flowed over stones
like snow, melted from the winter

the rain never ceased and the sky was always grey

so slow, we were water by a river's edge
fingers soft and dipped, angled beneath the surface

an amber glow, all mist and mystery
over fields with
cows and sheep, and people brushing teeth,
pulling sheets back, getting bedding ready for sleep

the afternoon always made us feel as if the
sky was a lagoon in
which we could swim
a dead sea with clouds, oh that briney air

sometimes we would pretend
with our eyes open

the world is quiet here
there are only days between
us, and dipping feet
and fingers into cold water

the playgoers are inside now

we heard the feet of businessmen
stampede upon the cobblestones of king st
and watched as the hair of fashionistas
flicked up in the afternoon wind

often we did this, from the fresco
of that small open air cafe -
the one we always talked of opening
with the library upstairs

the theatre nearby, posters
pasted upon stucco walls
with plays we could never
afford to go see

so often we did this, playgoers
lining the street, suits
and flowing dresses;
perfume in the evening air

from the fresco of that small
open air cafe, we admired those
suits and flowing dresses
and their lingering perfume

the playgoers are inside now

soft silver circles

sleep never comes when
the air is heavy

nor when there are days
between breaths

liquid always feels softer
in sunlight

on the tips
of my fingertips