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Our Last BBQ Together
There is a chunk missing from the foam Esky
that lays on the gravel by the tire.
I sprawl out on the bonnet of the ute,
leaving skinprints on the windshield with my back.
Jim and Bruce handball a footyball.
Patti twists the top of a stubby of VB-
draws and wipes her lips with
her jewelled hand.
She joins me, and we watch the boys.
I drink wine from a plastic cup;
It's warmth tries to release my tongue --
I'd tell her, but I wont.
I watch her man grip the ball,
with the hands that groped my arse
and I know she will not hear me.
He's dulled her deaf and dumb.
She turns and starts to speak. Stops.
Draws breath at the tenderness of the moment.
The clarity in her eyes is gone,
but the ring is brilliant in the setting sun.
She and I hold hands like lovers.
The heat from the engine warms our legs -- .
tanned thighs, raw knees, a shave-nicked ankle.
We do not speak. We cant.
They start to build the bonfire,
it reminds me of a funeral pyre
tinder kindling consumed
by brawny-handed flames.
Next week, she will be a bride.
I'll wear the taffeta gown she chose.
When they ask "Who gives this girl?"
I'll mouth the words "not me."
Eowyn
There is a chunk missing from the foam Esky
that lays on the gravel by the tire.
I sprawl out on the bonnet of the ute,
leaving skinprints on the windshield with my back.
Jim and Bruce handball a footyball.
Patti twists the top of a stubby of VB-
draws and wipes her lips with
her jewelled hand.
She joins me, and we watch the boys.
I drink wine from a plastic cup;
It's warmth tries to release my tongue --
I'd tell her, but I wont.
I watch her man grip the ball,
with the hands that groped my arse
and I know she will not hear me.
He's dulled her deaf and dumb.
She turns and starts to speak. Stops.
Draws breath at the tenderness of the moment.
The clarity in her eyes is gone,
but the ring is brilliant in the setting sun.
She and I hold hands like lovers.
The heat from the engine warms our legs -- .
tanned thighs, raw knees, a shave-nicked ankle.
We do not speak. We cant.
They start to build the bonfire,
it reminds me of a funeral pyre
tinder kindling consumed
by brawny-handed flames.
Next week, she will be a bride.
I'll wear the taffeta gown she chose.
When they ask "Who gives this girl?"
I'll mouth the words "not me."
Eowyn
The Poets Garret
WildCity Writers' Workshop
Poetry Challenges
Selected Poetry
