Steph Amir

Suburban Angel

The white-haired man who lives around the
corner is my guardian angel. He doesn’t know
this and has forgotten I exist. He reminds me of

a friend who died, a mentor who I turn to for
guidance then realise he’s not there. I still speak
to my friend, sending messages to his Facebook 

account, his eyes still glittering with mischief. 
My angel has the same knowing smile. Both have
spoken words that rippled, rocked the boat, 

shaken others into action or alarm, caused waves
of such size that prime ministers were asked, have
you heard about this guy?! responding with a curt nod.

At the supermarket, my toddler screams and flings
herself to the ground. My angel appears, bringing fruit, 
a calm smile, the reminder, it won’t always be like this. 

After the ABC announces conservatives have 
won the 2019 election, my angel walks past my 
front yard while I fling weeds at random like

poorly-considered votes. Not our time yet, hey? 
he says, and I almost cry with relief for the frame 
I couldn’t find alone. I want to say, don’t leave, 

and there’s been a mistake, he was meant to live 
forever, and now he’s gone. Instead I say, it’s 
so disappointing, and maybe next time, I guess.

Yes, my angel says. Soon.

Lorikeets

There’s a bunch of flowers in the auditorium: bottlebrush and fluffy wattle.

Look, John says. It’s native and colourful: it’s a rainbow lorikeet.

They’re flowers, Jess responds from the other side of the stage, holding out a Callistemon.

John scoffs. Lorikeets destroy houses, you know. Chomp through the windowsills. Screech and frighten children. He turns to the crowd. Do you want your houses destroyed? Your children terrified?

No! the crowd calls out.

John smirks at Jess.

The next day, she gets side-eyed as she walks down the street, glared at in the supermarket.

               A lie is like an insect, hard to catch as it
                                                            flits
                              through                              crowded               pubs
                                             down    school                                             
corridors
                                                                                          landing               in               offices,
                              multiplying
                                             multiplying in the dark.

New books arrive at the library and are borrowed by library members.

The books are gone, John announces. That’s censorship, you know.

They’re due back in a fortnight, Jess explains.

John points at her. You’ll be burning books next. You’re burning books. Who know what else you’ll burn?

He sneers as he lights a match.

The fire crackles and smoke billows. Jess runs to find a hose, but the librarians already have buckets.

Together they pour water on the flames. Others join them.

                    The truth is like a whale,
               grey, dense and lumpy
          too big to leap or fly
          struggling for oxygen
               its supporters mocked, shut up
                              egg-head
                              you are
                              in my
                              way.

The smoke clears. The library is still standing. The wattle tree is singed.

John’s Facebook profile shows that he’s been playing cricket all afternoon, three suburbs away.

The stunned library members stand on the smouldering embers.

Hey, says a teenager to Jess. My mate says you’re training a flock of killer lorikeets.

No, she says.

Lorikeets are cool, says his brother. Better than some boring-arse bunch of flowers.

Yeah, says another kid. If that’s for real, you’re a fucken legend.




Steph Amir is an emerging writer from Melbourne, with a background in science and politics. Her poems have been published in Australia and internationally, including recently in Burrow, Ghost Girls, Meniscus, Phantom Kangaroo and Wordgathering.

 
 

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