Six poems from The Leopard Lady Speaks: A Novel in Verse

Cultural Studies↔ Critical Methodologies, 2011

1994

Text: Journal of the Australian Association of Writing Programs, 2017

Clio met Tomas one night at a gathering at Max's place. [1] She had recently returned to Brisbane when she ran into Max, an old acquaintance. Clio told him she was looking for a place to stay. He offered her the tiny flat above his in West End, a bohemian part of town where artists and other outsiders hung outside cafes and smoked cigarettes. She moved in immediately, lined up a job at a small college in the city, and lived each day without much thought for the future. Clio was ensconced in the kitchen talking to a woman who was older, and sharp witted with long, black hair pulled tight into a bun on top of her head. She told Clio that while she was in administration, her passion was for the arts; she had a show coming up at Soapbox, a gallery in the centre of town. 'Oh,' said Clio with raised eyebrows. The woman's eyes shone. Her glasses were enormous and had thick black rims. Her dangling earrings swung violently. She was becoming more excited as she explained her concept. It involved knitted animals. Clio imagined woolen bunnies or lambs with sagging ears, spread across a white gallery floor. The woman said: 'What do you do?' Clio paused. 'I'm a teacher.' 'Oh-what do you teach?' 'English. As a second language.' 'Do you enjoy it?' 'It has its moments.' The woman smiled. They both sipped their wine. Clio added that she liked to play the piano and write poetry in her spare time before the conversation steered back to the woman's show. The words washed over Clio like waves. She was being eroded, whittled down, nullified. She didn't know much at all about art when it came down to it, and this fact bothered her for reasons she didn't yet fully understand. Max, who was busy being the host, was the only person Clio knew. She tapped a fingernail on her glass. 'It's undervalued,'said the woman, whose eyes glowed brighter, in a half-crazed sort of way. Clio laughed along. She thought she detected sarcasm, but couldn't be sure. 'Knitting is a forsaken art! A part of the fabric of womankind!' In the stark kitchen light, Clio saw a face reflected in the woman's glasses. The same face peered out of each lens. For a moment, she didn't know who it was. Then she recognized herself-her dyed blonde hair, her eager eyes. [2] Tomas waltzed past the doorway behind them. Clio saw him. He was gorgeous: frothy black hair, a rash of stubble, a dangling cigarette. He swaggered rather than walked.

TEXT, 2018

On the next instance of the New South Whales making an appearance in the assignment, she hesitated, then typed out a pithy question. Because a third mention surely deserved sarcasm. She tapped it out two-fingered on her laptop. 'Are these related to the Southern Right Whale?' Was she undermining the student's self-esteem by pointing out he didn't know how to smell the name of his home state? More to the point, had she been teaching too long? It was supposed to be a heart and soul job, a vacation like being a nun. She wanted to do the right thing but increasingly felt she was losing the plot and not just of the students' convoluted assignments. It was like an illness, this feeling stalking her. The bus lurched to a stop and she was jostled by the outflow of passengers spelling of body odour and expensive perfumes and daily grind. She stared blankly at the swelling cityscape beyond the window. Sighed. Not her stop. Dropped her eyes back to the coldface. The hall was deserted. She sometimes doubted students existed in threedimensional space. The laminated A4 on the Professor's door announced Consolation times, handily colour coded on a timetable. No one had introduced him to the vagaries of autocorrect, nor his students to the futility of expecting anything soothing when they came to consult behind that particular door. She arrived just in time, a skerrick before the nick, in a case of hurrying up to get somewhere to sit still. The school meeting dragged, its soul-purpose, it seemed, to prepare them for hell. The diminutive sessional tutor alone did not partake of the neatly triangular sandwiches and cut fruit provided as incentive to get them there. This woman had long subsided on next-to-nothing at all. As the clock on the far wall itched its way closer to the advertised conclusion, she found herself drowning. She woke as her chin hit her chest. 'I meant drowsing,' she apologised. The Head droned on, having made a slightly more complex spelling mistake: perusing agenda items took so much longer than pursuing them. The list of mistakes in the afternoon marking grew. The baddie had another think coming. A ballerina was frilled when she won the Eisteddfod. Some boys went surging. The versus of a song were eluded to.

2017

Lute sat dawn and began to unlace his boots. His f in-~ gets were stir. cold, and they fumbled stiffly with the laces. "You dust naw gettin' around to shav ing?" Daniel, laughed. "That's far Mary. " Lute's hands stopped. mov ing o He I ooked up. "You're not going to. to cut her, are you?" "Cut her ?" "Yeah. L~_ke you dial that old white-face caw that t~.me ?" Daniel sighed. "No, z d idn' t reckon an i. t. Hope not, anyway o But she ought to be shaved. " "You mean her o. her pussy? Hell, she can't shave it. Can't even see it wfth that belly. " Dan ie1 laughed aga~.n. "Boy, you don't know d fiddly, do you? She ain't gonna shave it. You are. " "Me : Oh, Dad , no. I c auldn' t do that. I mean , Jesus , what if 2 cut i t ? What if I sl ~ Aped. and cut it ?" He tugged furiously at the bootlaces o "Well , it ought to be shaved, " Dan~.el said. "It' 11 be cleaner and easier if we shave it. Not sa much chance of ~.nfection." "Maybe Mom could shave it. Maybe one of the girl s a " "Your maw never used a raz or ~ n her life. And. the girls are in town o Gat stranded at school when the bz i~~ard h~ t. You've got to d a i t. " up a g irl , and ~ hav e to keep you from running away. Now lE you want me to shave her privates and deliver your bastard for you. You don = t deserve a girl 1 ike that, `boy. " DanieZ was breathing hard. Sweat glistened. on his forehead and 1 ips o "You want are to knock her up for you next t it~e ~" Lute sprang from the chair, h j_s f ~_s t drawn back o Daniel sneered at hirn, his massive shoulders flexing under the straps of hj~s overalls. Lute ~.owered his f ~.st. Da.nie~. motioned. toward the dishpan o "Be a man, boy o Do what you have to da a " Lute sat down and pulled. off the other boot. He gat the shav ing mug f turn the cabinet over the sink, dipped s oroe water frorn~ the reservoir, and worked up a lather. He picked up the dishpan and walked to the bedroom. Daniel followed him, his face still grim o His mother had tu~.ed on all the lights in the roam. She had even brought a floor lamp f rots the living rood far added l fight o When Lute and his father entered , she was s i t-ting beside the bed , holding Mary's hand and talking to her. She paused and s m i 1 ed a t them. _ "Well , it won't be too lon no~~ o Pa~.ns are about ten g minutes apart o " She saw the basin and the shav ink, mug. "Going to shave her? Goad o Wish we'd a-known that when Ros fie and Mana was born. Makes it a 1 of neater o Course , they we.s no way we could've known until Lute. He was the f ~. rs t one barn ~ n the hosp ~. ta1, you know o " She patted ~~ Mary's small hand.. "So don't you worry, now, honey. Daniel ' s del. ivered two by his self. " Mary f arced a stile and squeezed .~ggie' s hand. Her face was white and d atop. Her eyes were frightened and plea+ ding when she 1 poked at Lute. He turned b~.ck the patchwork quilt that covered her. She was wearing one of his mother's flannel nj_ghtgowns o Under her buttocks and thighs, his mother had laid. a checkered oilcloth from the kitchen table and three bath towels , folded d aubl e. He pulled the nightgown up, exposing her ~ He blushed. a "Never thought Y' d hate to do that, "he said. Zt saun~ ded false, hollow. "LU.te, " his ~t3atheX" se.id, " don't talk s0. " Mary bent her knees and spread her legs. wide. Lute held the shaving brush ready, hesitated a ~aotrierit, then began to lather her. "N'ot too tYttxch," Daniel said. "You've got to gee What you' Z'E3 d' Oing. " Lute set the mug and the brush as id. e. He picked up the razor and dried it on one of the towels. Mary stared at i t. She gripped egg ie ' s hand tightly. Lute sat on the edge of the bed, resting his right elbo~ an the mattress 'between her 1 egs far support. Even s o , the razor t rer~bl ed in h~ ~ hand.. He held. ~ the blade above her. Sweat rolled dawn her belly and. mingled with the soap. He brought the 'cause she called me 'Harold. ' 'At the bank, ' I say. 'Don't 1 i.e to me , ' she says , ' I saw that dog. ' " They were both sobb~.ng now as they laughed. Nate held his aching sides , but he could not stop , F~.nally, when his laughter had subsided to silent chuckles and he had wiped the tears from his eyes, he saw that Lily had came in. Check had stopped wheezing, but he too was still shaking with chuckles, still squeaking the chair. "Were you telling him about the dog?" she said. "hod d a~nn : " Nate shouted. He twisted the d ie.~. viciously. The ,jazz station in Belton was safe .. They never played c aun try mus ~. c. He watched the 1 and roll by and. tr~.ed not to th~.nk. It was poor country, poor land , rocky and. dry. No trees. Cn1y scrubby ~esc~uite and scr~.ggy brawn grass. A n~onotonaus brawn o Frown d.:~rt, thin and pa~.e. brass burned brown under the broiling sup.. Even the sky was bo i 1 ing brown s arse t ime s when the wind bl e~~ in , carrying half of des t Teas with i t. But today the sky was blue and. cloudless , and the morning sun baked tho dry air and brown d-~. rt and the big red. car that ~u.rred d c~wn the road. , tearing wharfs of brawn d.us t f rocs the shoulder. Peg gave h~.m a ~.00k of snack amazement when he walked into the showroom. The d off; was stretched out ~.n a patch of sun~.~.ght beside the door o Peg straddled the dog as she d sew a c up of c of x"ee from the urn. "Hey, roadrunner, what ~ re you doing here an. Monday? And, my ~c~d, it's not even ~.uncht~.me. You won't get any goulash ar kolbase a•t ten in the marn~.ng. " Nate did not banter with her as he usu.al~.y did. "Is Check in the c~ff~.ce?" "lure, " the saf.d. Her va~.ce sounded a ~.:ittle hurt at his curtness, but Nate ignored it. Check's face broadened into that ~.op~ :t_ded grin when date wal ~ec~ fn .

1987

A VOTIVE FOR EMERSON Auroras flicker like the soul of a city rising From the wilderness beyond. I grew up in the east, Manhattans from the sky at night, a circuit board of lights. The aberrant loveliness of human effort. Not the single farmhouse, one road to town, But the complications of cloverleaf and staircase. Some nights, into a sky blank as philosophy's, The moon rises full and clear. On such a night, I saw you Wander out of Madison Towers dressed in your green coveralls, "Emerson" embroidered over your heart. Walking to your car, you felt the weight of the moonlight, And turned to see it-a pearl in the blue-black sky, And when you turned back to the car, your hand Had broken into a million shadows, and you felt The planet moving, skyscrapers like cardboard, And you remembered a former time, another life, And your lips formed a shape, And you touched the gleaming door handle And you opened the door.

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the screeching of anarchic cats, a child crying, a voice from somewhere could be of pleasure or anguish. At dawn, exhausted fences lean inwards, over palings where fruit-tree branches hang, dry thickskinned lemons, sun-hardened, bird-picked. Wind gusts drift papers and grit into corners. On a back step, a pot of scarlet bougainvillea-the pavement gives way to soft purple flowers of clover their intimacy of a naked inner wrist exposed by a dressing-gown sleeve pushed back from wet soapsuds in a sink: back in alleys there's a thrumming, like heartbeatsit thuds and blossoms and roars.

TEXT

Yale Review, 2010