Jane Downing


The Art of the Deal

The thin curtain of cloth between
the cubicle and the changing room
confers the sanctity of the Confessional
even in BigW on a weekday afternoon approaching
summer

What is said in there is sealed
a secret between you and your reflection
who looks nothing like you under the harsh
white lights
and so the mother and her daughter
do not think to whisper
do not hush their voices to confide

They stand in a pool of lycra and nylon togs
with a decision to be made
You know you’d have to be more careful 
put on more sunblock
your back and stomach too

She is a tube of flesh and potential
bronzed legs naturally smooth
and chest Instagrammable as a boy’s
her eyes staying on her image
in the pink and white bikini
her eyes saying in the language 
of childhood on the cusp:
Yes. This. Is. Me.

Every woman in every cubicle up
and down the aisle holds still
behind her curtain
cast back remembering that moment
in their own unwritten memoirs
of dwelling in Paradise

Lost now – cast out and abandoned
to the unwavering male gaze

There is no denying the power
of a pre-pubescent teen
and the mother softened by childbirth
plumped by caring
concedes
Your dad’s not going to like it
Let me do the talking when we get home

There is work to be done
to stake a claim
on her body
It will come at a cost
He thinks you’re too young
but here’s the deal…
and it is made
the mother bundles the one-piece bathers
and discarded seal skin togs from the floor



Bird Divination

Monday: a gang of flame-headed gang-gangs
               convene a standing committee by the bike path
The perfect day to get organised

Tuesday: a rosella reveals his knothole nest
               emerging like a red flag from a magician’s hand
Expect a little bit of welcome magic

Wednesday: a flock of cockatoo prune the ornamental
               cherries, yellow ticks of approval down their necks
You will make good progress on your ‘to do’ list

Thursday: chuffed to see choughs
Good humour will surround your daily endeavours

Friday: the currawong’s stolen crumpet
               gives her the profile of a Mursi tribal woman
Beware the loss of vital sustenance

Saturday: bird poop down the sheet on the washing line
               evidentially the culprit has eaten of the lilly pilly
Shit happens

Sunday: magpie drops a bundle on the path ahead –
               a baby bird, half-eaten. He cleans his beak
               back and forth on the branch above
So best not to push your luck 

 

Way of Sorrow

And I will send you a postcard when I get there. And I will find a stamp
with a colourful bird endemic to the region and affix it to the top right 
hand corner with a sliver tucked over the edge onto the card’s image
so as to leave every word I have written on the back uncovered 
including my last crushed thoughts squeezed in between the spaces
for the stamp and your address. And I will imagine your journey
from your front door to the letterbox and your consternation
when my promised card is not yet there so you have to hold faith
that I am finding my way back to you who may ask why I have to travel
to find myself, who may ask isn’t the journey supposed to be a metaphor.
You may even be right. I will choose a postcard from the Via Dolorosa and
explain on the back that we all have our own sorrowful way.

Jane Downing’s poetry has appeared in journals around Australia including Meanjin, Cordite, Rabbit, Canberra Times, Bluepepper, Not Very Quiet, Social Alternatives, and Best Australian Poems (2004 & 2015). Her collection, When Figs Fly (Close-Up Books), was published in 2019. She can be found at janedowning.wordpress.com.

 
 

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