247. Christmas in the Desert

We shake our heads
at the Christmas displays
in the grocery store.

Some people mock
those who play carols
in the December summer
in the barren desert.

We struggle to feel festive
when the days grow hotter
and we're all so far
from home.

But we can't help but smile
at the shrub on the side of the highway
that someone covered with tinsel
to reflect the gold of our headlights.

246. At the Harbor

We lie on our backs on the grass,
which is actually just clover
kept short and soft to the touch.
The palm tree arches over us,
protecting us from the sun
that reflects off the harbor
just beyond the sand
we can see through our toes.

Time must still pass here,
but it doesn't have an even flow,
the seconds counting up
with each rattle of the palm fronds.

239. Humidity

The air grows heavy with moisture
once the hot sun drops below the horizon
and the wind stops the constant stream
that denotes daytime in the Pilbara.

Our skin is a damp, almost-sticky
feeling that grows more uncomfortable
as we fill up with heavy foods
and great company,
until the weight of the air
seems to pull on our eyelids as well.

Then we leave.
Happy
and weighted
with good things.

231. Stalking the Raptor

As I tread down the footpath

against the side of the warehouse,

I notice the raptor has returned

to the perch near the rafters

and the opening the size of a nest.

I slow, then stop completely

to watch the bird take in the area,

its head swiveling back and forth.

I wait for its head to turn right

before I risk one step forward,

then I consider maybe it sees better

from the periphery since its eyes

are settled on the sides of its face.

I wait for it to look toward me

before I take another step,

taking in the color of its feathers,

the way they lay against its neck,

but here still, I feel watched.

I manage six steps, 

each one sharpening the picture

of the raptor against the sky,

its talons wrapped around the post

before it leaps into the air and leaves.

I resume my normal pace

and return to my affairs.

190. A Night at the Movies

The sky is still darkening,
the edge of pink fading out of existence,
when the lights at the amphitheater
shut off for the film to start on the screen.
No fireflies roam the skies here
like they do back home,
their lights flickering softly.
Instead, the flying foxes swoop
down in front of the movie
and hundreds of stars still shine,
despite the projector and the projection.

188. The Process of Sleep

First the sounds sharpen,
each word taking on the staccato
of a hammer on a nail.

Then I hear my heartbeat
seeming too fast and heavy
as it explores my body.

But it slows, eventually,
tumbling down into an easy rhythm
that drags my eyes closed.

Between one breath and the next,
the words slip away into a nest,
a comfortable cloud in which I sleep.

183. Sunday Drive

The air in the car is stale and too warm.
the spiderwebs break and cling to my skin
as I sit in the passenger's seat.

Should we go back? you ask,
pumping your arm to roll down the window.

But I shake my head,
hot,
stiff,
and inspired to spend Sunday afternoon
driving through a neighborhood
with illogical layouts
and no destination in mind.

159. Satisfaction

My cheeks flush with the excess heat from the oven
and my mouth feels too dry after eating the dinner.
My thigh itches uncomfortably from a small patch
of razor burn damp with the humid kitchen air.
My heart seems to beat too fast, too loudly
as my eyes begin to droop shut with exhaustion
and the satisfaction of a stomach full of cheese.
When your fingers curl gently around my wrist,
we find pizza dough, dried in crumbling scales.

155. Staircase to the Moon

We wait anxiously, restless among the broken
shells that make up a large swath of the beach,
ready to watch the full moon glow red-orange
and peak over the horizon of the water at low
tide. The light will reflect off the bay, broken
where the mudflats intercept the moonbeam.

To our left, the flare from the natural gas plant
burns brighter in the dark before the moon rises.
To our right lay the bright lights for the choir
and the sound systems that feeds a steady stream
of natural wave sounds as if we'd forget
that the waterline is too far out to hear it.
Behind us, headlights and flashlights streak
across the path, through our vision, and people
chatter restlessly for the natural scene to begin.

Once the moon does rise, a spry red presence
in the Eastern sky, the voices halt for a moment
before the flashes start going, failing to capture
the play of darkness and light across the bay.

154. Lexicon

Some days, in the grocery store, I stare at fruit

I cannot describe and struggle to match my list

of American food terminology to the Aussie reality

on the shelves: how tomato sauce is a ketchup;

use bolognese on pasta. Bicarb for the dough.

Sometimes, in conversations, the words flow out

of my mouth until I'm speaking a hybrid of native

tongue and cultural cues mixed up in a melting pot

until I don't even realize that I'm using words 

I had to relearn and practice until they felt natural.

Sometimes, though, I catch the newest words,

in my vocabulary, not tripping over the diction,

but watching them pass, pausing to admire them

and see if I still remember the American equivalent.

150. Capturing the Outback

There were times in those first days, weeks,

when I would sit outside in the wobbly chair

or amongst the dust on the concrete sidewalk

and stare at the horizon, the spacious red dirt

and brush landscape spanning all four directions,

the broad expanse of the sky, ever cloudless

even on the mornings that felt like rain.

The air only held birds I’d never seen before,

zephyrs that felt strange against my skin,

and the sharp captivating reminder

that I’m actually in Australia; it lured me

outside for every moment I could spare.

I used to stare at the sky, tracing constellations

I couldn’t name, searching for shooting stars

or satellites in the edge of the Milky Way,

staring at the way the crescent moon hung

at a different angle from the one at home.

I photographed everything that could fit

into a frame and even more blurred attempts

to capture a feeling, a place that could never

be translated into words or tamed fit in a 3x5

photograph, or whatever that is in centimeters.

And I don’t want to have to say there were times.

Sunday Night at the Mermaid

Sharp crack of the balls
on the green felt colliding,
sometimes dropping down.

Remembering Fear

In the dark, I walk along the pavers,
my bare feet seeking the smoother ones
as I weave a path onto the dirt lawn
and then up the slope of the sidewalk.
I hurry forward, feeling tense, anxious.
and silly that the stories about snakes
we shared last night have reminded me
I should be afraid of things I can't see.

Inside, I buffer myself with flip-flops
too flimsy to provide any protection
from anything except my own fears.

Steel-Toed Life

I hardly pay attention, half asleep in the mornings,

when I pull on my steel-toed boots and tie the laces.

The inner soles have long since molded to my feet

and months have passed since I last paid attention

to the extra weight wrought with each step forward.

Instead, I notice the tightness in my outer ankles

and my calves when I later move certain directions,

the beveled touch of the sidewalk under my soles,

and the extra flexibility in my ankles when I wear

my well-worn pair of sneakers that now feel foreign.

Grass in Karratha

In this town where the limited water
supply confines the residential sprawl,
grass is an extravagance and a waste.
Sprinklers run on timers in some yards,
but the soft spray sound is uncommon.
We pull or trim weeds and tall grasses
as soon as the rains end for the year,
because they'll lose their green hue
for a rattling golden-brown tinge,
and the grasses hide snakes, rats,
spiders, and other deadly creatures.

After the fair, I ask him if he enjoyed it--
the large roaring rides, the food stands,
the small art collection, the people--
and he says, "I liked sitting in the grass."

Clouds of Smoke

We can see the wisps of gray matter
forming just behind the mountain,
a telltale sign of a large bush fire
somewhere to the south of us.
The smoke stretches to the sides,
leaves small gaps of blue sky
between the lines and the smoke
continues to build all day long.

As the sun sets, the cloud turns
purple in the darkening sky
and I know that come morning
the streaks of smoke will be bigger
because bush fires run wild here,
run until they put themselves out.

A Crowded Evening

A crowd has gathered, sitting comfortably
around the long table and on the old couch
to watch the Olympics on the television,
to watch a man blow out the small flame
burning down a blue polka-dotted candle
on a homemade cake, and to give wishes
to a second man, who is moving out
and heading back home tomorrow evening.

Wednesday's Poem: Roebourne Mornings

We walked down the sidewalk of the main road
in the town of Roebourne on a warm Sunday
before the sun could rise too high and burn us.
The buildings bore the names of the businesses
painted on the sides, like a small town diner
or a hotel straight from the movies set in the 1950s,
but this town is current, full of people and flowers
that grow along the fences and stretch to the street.
The street looked fake, like something was hiding
behind the bright, thick paint and the iron fences,
but as I crossed another side street without cars,
I thought maybe the lack of change explains enough.

Festival in an Abandoned Town

We take the turn down the long and straight road
toward the abandoned town hosting an art show;
a car passes going the other way, then two cars,
then a pack of seven cars, and we begin to wonder
if this art opening is a bigger deal than we thought.

The paved road stretches on but we can see cars
on either side, parked in the red dirt and bushes,
still far outside of town, and then we find the line
of people hoping to find a dirt patch large enough
to hold their car as they look through 300 paintings.

The music reaches us as soon as we exit the car,
and we head for the food carts, too few in number
for a town with no real restaurant or other eatery.

Hundreds of people press in close, calm and civil,
but we know we made a gross miscalculation
when we thought this was just an art opening.

At the Grocery Store

Softly, we discuss pasta option
in front of the refrigerated display
until something crashes to the floor
and we look up to spot a man
in the milk department, his arms
twisted and taut at odd angles
as his body convulses roughly.
A woman starts frantically calling,
'Help, somebody, please help him'
and everyone freezes for the space
of one long conscious inhalation

before the quick burst into action.