Poem
Picture: Joel Deane
My father
My father speaks
a foreign language—
shadow meanings,
sawn-off statements,
same old questions
about the car.
When I was home
he never hit me,
he never held me
(he never knew).
We just drove round,
never touching,
always watching
what we said.
My father is a model
discontinued—
one owner only,
straight, simple lines,
doors that
clunk
when they close.
Previously published in Zadok Perspectives, broadcast on the ABC's
program and collected in
Subterranean Radio Songs
.