‘What’s an Australian poet
anyway?’ he scoffed. I almost answered: ‘You’re sitting
next to one.’ But I was only
his old aunty. I kept mum.
15/3/26
My peacock feathers will insist
on leaning too far sideways
out of the vase where I stood them –
to brush the feet of pictured Isis
and curl in a reverential fan
over the head of my statue of Thoth.
17/3/26
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