FISHING TRIP
in the end/ the murray cods came to liverpool/
clear orange skies retreated from the rear car
window/ as my father brought back the bush
in a bag/ by-products of outdoor relaxation/
the weekly recreational fish kill/ hooked in
by the mouth & the lie of abundant food/
eight hundred kilometres of dead eyes &
long homeward conversations of triumph
& expertise/ of aquatic deaths in cars/ along
huge sydney freeways in the world out of
water/ leading us back to the cities & suburbs
of our capture/ i watched the sixty three holden
pull into the driveway/ my father stepped out
& emptied the hessian bags/ the fat brown eels
swam the front lawn/ winding out from the
central point of his thong/ in spirals of well
developed brains & nervous systems/ fish pain
receptors taking them on pointless journeys/
of cold blooded movement towards the next
door neighbours/ into the horror gasp of
asphyxiation & my father's scaler/ knifed by
our black & white cats & ginge the tom/ as
a toddler i made eye contact with hemmed in
cods/ through thick plastic bags in the freezer/
during tea time i begged my mother to remove
the eyes, head & tails/ the fish were soaked in
herbs & vinegar/ but all the while i nibbled at
the gritty white flesh/ i could taste the darling
river in my mouth |
