1. School Oval
the outer suburban wind blows down grass
in paddocks alongside the school oval/ my
inflamed joints are aching in the cold/
the competitive whistles & shrieks of a
friday sports afternoon carry in this
weather/ i'm taking the shortcut home to
an empty house/ my mother is working in
the factory/ i have my mother's wrists/
wrists that need to be kept in a box with
cotton wool/
wrists like small birds
hopping from twisted twig to twisted twig/
birds do not live long/ a huge black
storm is rising up from the edges of the
oval/ thunderheads rolling above the
velvet muzzles of hobby farm cows/ warm
clouds of moisture curling like breath
into the dark atmosphere/ high school has
taught me nothing & you can't beat the
system/ will i be obliterated out here?/
i could hold onto the fence wire but it's
barbed/ it's time to let go & use my hands
as veined wings/ these hands that have
dragged the legs of injured animals
towards their rescue/ that display the
scars of self mutilation shaking in the
storm/ i will not hurt my hands anymore/
if i must work in the factory like my
mother/ i will fill my uniform pockets
with imitation pearls & dewdrop buttons/
during tea break i will sew frogs & lily
ponds onto crisp cotton pillow cases/ i
must not look closely at my mother's hands/
a few quaint rings clamped onto veins/ &
chipped pink nail varnish on chapped skin/
they have survived with the magic destroyed
in them/ a few large rain drops splash onto
my cheeks/ i make cradles for hands across
my chest beneath my armpits/ i pass by the
silent cows & soon to be drenched jet
black bulls
2. Plastics Factory
i'm perched on a high ledge coated in grease
in a plastic's factory/ every thirty minutes
the forklift driver takes away boxes of
plastic cups in plastic sleeves/ occasionally
he will harass me/ but i shoo him away &
he takes off like a bird along the concrete
floor/ i'm wedged in between machines in skin
coloured stockings & a short blue uniform/
i could be a grey cloud or a blue kookaburra
caught in the wire/
i do not speak to the
women who pack the cups/ they are
strangers to me/ an orange light flashes
overhead/ this is afternoon shift in lily
plastics/ at the far end of the factory i catch
a glimpse of a rectangular door/ outside a
flash of city parrot & sky on grass/ & beyond
that more factories/ i am fearful that they
may extend beyond sydney/ the machine
i am perched on is no.3/ it moves towards
my right hip in a forceful circular motion/
one hundred & forty-four cups smash
down onto plastic moulds every five
seconds & move on/ in between the moulds
cups have been mutilated/ my job is to
lean over the wire mesh safety barrier &
pull them out/ this machine is dysfunctional/
my forearms scramble along like claws/
growing tired beneath the roof of steel/
i dig out plastic like a dog/ every five
seconds i quietly withdraw my hands as
no.3 comes crushing down/ dysfunctional
machines swallow hands & arms/ strange
women wait for lotto results, payday &
weekends/ the amphetamine i have taken
before the shift begins to work/ i wait
for the rush of a positive attitude/ outside
this factory there must be a paradise/
there is a specal place for me outside
this machinery
