I
ray drove us to moree camp along the back roads
until beads of sweat squeezed out from his
forehead like citrus/ his deep frown as crooked
as our general direction/ clouds of orange dust
disguising us from anyone who might be following/
a few emus pounded along beside the car lifting
feathers like windy skirts/
we drove at the sun
which hung on the edge of the plain/ at dusk a
rabbit leapt out in front of us/ our driver
aimed for it/ mumbling that he had no bullets
handy/ his old twenty-two twitching on the front
seat/ i wrestled the steering wheel & shouted/ the
mauve rabbit fought for its life in the smooth
grey dusk/ as the car hit the soft edges/ with
everyone in the back thrown forwards/
& the
rabbit lived to see another sunrise on the quiet
plain/ dad was watching from the back seat/ he
had previously told me that ray 'had a few
kangaroos loose in the top paddock'/ but all he
said about the rabbit was: be careful/ even snakes
are protected/ if one bites ya leg & breaks 'is
tooth you'll be up for a big fine/
my father did
not protect me against the six-foot-four drunk
who tried to maul me in his kitchen/ with three
other men watching/ i pushed the pervert onto
the firewood/ so that all the gidgee logs went
rolling like bowling pins/ his strange bulk
toppling over & crashing into the wall/ i wound
down the side window dark with disappointment/
& stars came down to fill the windscreen
II
the shooter's daughter strained to hold up the
death on a thin nylon line/ the huge shocked carp
attached to the hook/ its old watery mouth
ripping/ its silver grey scales & plank-stiff
body slapping her stomach/ her father said: you
can rip the whole body of a fish in half by
starting at its open mouth/
she held the carp as
high into the morning as she could/ her bright
eyes bulging unsure of her strength/ my father
emerged from a tent with bloodshot eyes to take
the photograph/ her crisp brown legs bending
under the pressure of lifting a fish from the
river/ its struggle to breathe almost toppling
her back into the water/
later the men shot the
camp to pieces/ they shot the foxes snakes &
rabbits/ they shot at sheep & used the trees as
target practice/ they lined beer bottles up along
the fences & shattered them with leadshot/ brown
glass piercing sky & earth with wind through its
broken edges/
they shot the fish in the rivers/
& when they couldn't see the scales they shot
the water's movement/ bullets sank down like
lead bubbles to rest as sediments/ they shot
the parrots from high tree hollows/ a crimson
wing crashing through leaves & twigs/ her egg
yolk fledglings sliding down the trunk/
& the
sun set on my shoulders/ as men brought down the
sky with their guns/ & everywhere i looked blood
was trying to feed the soil/ alongside drifting
nets & floating fish/ in rivers exhausted from
gelignite/ & a rabbit on the boil & bloated dogs
who farted kangaroo tail all night/
& strange men
with guns in their slaughterhouse boots/ treading
on the head of a boar pig/ with its tusks ripped
out for a keyring/ & blood like a river gushing
from its mouth/ men going home with photos
bloodied around the edges/ & pig bristles & fish
scales stuck beneath their fingernails
III
that night the shooters went out in their utes
with their half crazy pig dogs & giant yellow
spotlights/ & they shot kangaroos/ the mongrels
tore off the limbs & tore out throats/ hearts
left pulsing in bodies without heads/ some took
photographs of four dogs killing a doe/ the joey's
head severed from the pouch with ripped off claws/
the large blue doe kicking at dogs/ too far
from the brown river to gut & drown them/ to
hold their ripping teeth under/ her joey died
first/ its head hanging from its body by a
shoelace of flesh/ its small black nose dragging
in dust/ its remote joey consciousness deep
into stars/
the mother fought on for a while/
her joey hanging from her front/ her huge side
spilling blood like a riverbank collapsing/ her
ripped face letting air beneath the skin/ her
kangaroo vocals hissing & grunting/ she went down
like a tree trunk/ to the laughter of men & the
growling/
she stopped like a big clock/ her purple
heart flung at the dirt/ her tail pointing up like
an hour hand to the downward looking half moon/
the dogs looked back for approval/ as the men
sat down to light up cigarettes/ turning away
from the breeze blowing in their direction
IV
i saw a galah circling for its mate/ then its
pink breast shot from the sky/ it fell like a
small sun twisted on a tree stump/ it tried to
feed the ground with blood/ later i burnt the
crest-fallen body in the fire/ & then i took the
guns & threw them into the river/
guns don't
float/ they sink & aren't worth rescuing/ they
stay on the river bottom & gradually become
sediments/ making their dark journeys through
many sheep properties/ i stand by the river's
edge/ clumps of eucalypt rustling overhead/ the
camp has died leaving us its weird silence/
& the weirdness connects until the place takes
on the physical form of odd wrong-doings/ &
manifests as murdered mrs morse who hangs in
dark trees/ & the men drive back into town/ into
collarenebri, moree or lightning ridge/ or back
to the bigger cities dead inside from landscape
crimes/
& they have become criminals of australia/
moving along with their deadness & weirdness
inside/ taking it back to the city so that the
city contains it/ i might fall into the river &
drown a heartbroken lover or a drunken drover
caught in flood/ or the drowning horse or the
little lost boy/ ghost gums are ringbarked by
bullet holes as the landscape takes the guns away/
i remember the mood of the camp after killing it/
the big orange & green tents which stood cooking
in the heat/ an unzipped door or window flap lifting
slightly/ as if rising by the heat of itself/ & the
deafening birds along the riverbank at dawn/ &
dad's complaining: those birds will wake me like
a thousand women talking at once/
& i remember
the name of the river/ & the size of the sheep
properties it moved through/ & the strength of
its currents like a brown serpent creating
landscapes/ & the shedding of its watermarks on
the high sides of the banks/ where twisted roots
tugged on sandy soil/ to stop from toppling down
into its dead chill/
all life clinging with the
prospect of moving into the river/ beside its
deadly slow currents of submerged guns or fatal
inland tides/ & overflows & billabongs & drying
ups into snag haunted stretches/ & stagnant green
puddles a thousand miles inland from roads or
properties
