Carolina Skibinski


sushi sushi sushi submarine

There’s some damn dank seaweed
around them sushi. Feed it to them
red hens. See how they flip
the green strips from side to side.
That’s some damn dank sushi.
No one can give it away in this state
now it’s for a reduced price—
that works well for a mall gull
like myself, keeping an eye on the flotsam.
Squeeze a little extra salt, if you please’m;
if you find it to your taste
let the fish kiss your meat.
That’s some damn dank—
I gotta keep myself upright somehow.
It’s a flexible stick, just apply the right force,
and it propels the travel-wearied skyward.
That’s some damn sushi.
Are you sure you need a rest? and are wanting to sit down?
because we can arrange for someone
to manage five more hours out of you.



team player

The colours belong to teams.
Red. The burning of coal.
Blue. The waves between islands.
Green. The grass upon which
                our sport is played.
I look down at my T-shirt.
Which do I wear? I am green,
always in green—the ground
upon which the figures run. I am figuring
the figures—noting their footsteps
in the fibrous extensions of my being.

And so I chase after the ball,
the patch-worked, leather-bound air
of pressurized darkness,
and I find myself, after having scored a goal—
the breath caught in a net, and exhaled
to make its round once again—
I find myself in my individual
body, while the bodies
of others blur into one around me—
and I catch the cool, transparent air
within the warmth of my lungs.





Carolina Skibinski grew up in Adelaide with her post-Cold War, European refugee family, and studied literature and philosophy in Sydney. After managing to avoid being ultimately ordered in Canberra, she returned to Adelaide to share the joys of her young child with her family. To read more of her work, please search through Cordite and Transnational Literature.
 
 
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