Coral Hull: Poetry: William's Mongrels: Bottles

I MACKENZIE KNIGHT I A CHILD OF WRATH A GOD OF LOVE I FALLEN ANGELS EXPOSED I

CORAL HULL: WILLIAM'S MONGRELS
BOTTLES

dad & i looking for bottles at twin rivers in the
dry heat of february/ where the birrie & culgoa
meet on the back blocks of the property/ dozens of
bottles scattered across tidal floodplains/ washed
back & forth by brown rivers rushed down by north
queensland rain & winter flood/
                                               bottles of dry &
mysterious origins/ tonics, skin balms/ perfume
bottles, whisky bottles/ hot sauce & tomato sauce
bottles/ lemonade bottles from bourke, brewarrina
gundagai & bathurst/ milk bottles from dubbo/ &
dozens of ink bottles/ some square/ some round to
fit into the round holes of old bush school desks/

torpedo shaped bottles with glass marbles wedged in
the necks/ one hundred year old bottles/ thickly
cracked & densely lit/ bottles of impenetrable glass
& weevils webs connected to lumps of glug from river
bottoms/ i dive down into the culgoa to uproot
bottles from the muddy bed/
                                           dad said that in the
bread & dripping & treacle days of the 1940s
the culgoa was crystal clear/ & how his dog branto
used to dive down to the river's centre & bring up
fresh water mussels/ cracking them between his canine
teeth in a frenzy/
                         i would feel the black edge of
mussel shells between my toes/ or shrimp nibbling my
legs at the steep banks of river's edge/ or big grey
yabbies held in sunlight & air for too long squeezing
tiny bubbles from their tender grey armour/
                                                                 i released
as much air as possible from my lungs/ enabling my
body to sink in a standing position to the bottom/
once at the dark centre the currents slept/ & all
the dry land worlds would drift away in tangles of
floating hair/ beating low & still in my eardrums in
murky brown throbs/
                                then i pushed through to the river's
warm surface/ dispersing skaters & disturbing frogs
in low lying branches that dunk their leaves in & out
of slow currents/ dad & i by the river for hours/
scrounging through piles of broken glass near the
shearers' huts/
                      & thousands of bottles piled up near
abandoned homesteads or burnt down hotel rubbish
dumps/ where all other traces of early lives had
rotted away into inland mulch/ leaving bottles to
eons of floodtide, insects, sun & dust/ the deeper we
dug the older they got/
                                  dad said: you can sell all
these down in sydney/ where people were 'sugarfoot',
'tenderfoot' or 'as silly as cut snakes'/ for old bottle
tops like big glass tacks/ they're always afta these,
he said/ take 'em ter the antique shops in manly/
they're stupid over there/ buy anything/ they love
the pretty ones the best/ plentya money/
                                                            i couldn't
see myself selling bottles from the bush/ to the
peak hour rush of buyers he had conjured up for me/
we stacked bottles in the end room of the house which
he was caretaking/ & i spent days washing them clean
in plastic buckets & clearing them of gluggy stuff
with a bottle brush/ so i could see them inside out
& look through them into the sun/
                                                  always dad's words
niggling that some must be worth a fortune/ & in the
late afternoon a brilliant golden light through a
hundred window slats/ sending the deep blues, mauves
& sun bleached greens & the opaque crystal oldness
of bottles/ striking angles & patterns of light on
walls, grass floor mats & upon my skin as i worked/

a few weeks later my e.h. holden rattled all the way
back to sydney/ across the blue mountains with no
breakages/ & dad saying that he was 'glad ter get rid
of the fucken things'/ & in sydney mum saying: what
are you gonna do with all those bloody bottles?/
remembering when dale & brendon had travelled home
on the XPT from dubbo after visiting dad/
                                                              with their
suitcases full of pumpkins & half their clothes left
behind/ from when dad got stoned & had driven to a
pumpkin orchard just out of town/ filling the ford
again & again/ & the next morning a loungeroom full
of hangovers, aching muscles & pumpkins used as stools
& footrests/ & the kitchen piled high with pumpkins
from floor to ceiling/
                               & months after/ everytime
dad rang up STD to liverpool/ dale would ask: how's
the pumpkins dad?/ how many ya got left?/ & dad afraid
of gossip on the brewarrina telephone exchange/ either
hanging up/ or his frantic whispers from the phone
receiver: shut up you fucken idiot/ they're all
listening in up 'ere/
                             later at nan & pop's/ i lined
the best bottles up on the kitchen table/ & nanny
remembering each as plotting points in her own life/
telling me what they had contained, who sold them/
who would have used the contents & how old they
were/ pop listening in the background & her wisdom
bringing each bottle to life again in the fluorescent
kitchen

    

This website is part of my personal testimony that has been guided by The Holy Spirit and written in Jesus' name.

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