Love, Ghosts, & Facial Hair

by Steven Herrick

not with Dad beside her

  and us in the back, talking.

  I can feel Des crying beside me

  I put my arm around her

  we shiver together

  in the mist

  and wait for it

  to clear.

  The Wild Orchard

  Valentine’s day

  Dear Annabel,

  HAPPY VALENTINE’S DAY!

  I wanted to give you this card in person,

  but my sister told me that Valentine’s Day wishes

  must remain anomn, anunom, anonomus, nameless.

  So, whoever you think I am is probably wrong.

  But it’s definitely not

  Peter Blake, the school captain.

  Let’s face it, he couldn’t even spell his own name,

  let alone anonymous!

  And it’s not Alex Ricco, who seems to act louder

  every time you walk past the gang at lunchtime.

  Alex is busy right now writing a Valentine

  to his basketball.

  Anyway, think of nose hair!

  Happy Valentine’s

  J XXX

  Annabel on Jack

  He sent me a Valentine’s card

  it took him six months to get this far

  he almost signed it

  he’s as transparent as gladwrap

  but I like his smile

  and the way he tries to meet my eyes

  and he doesn’t play football

  so he can’t be too bad

  and unlike the rest of the school

  he’s not in love with baggy pants

  and baseball caps slapped on backwards

  he doesn’t say “Yo”

  or call everyone “brother”

  and act like he’s from South-Central L.A.

  I’ve never seen him in the company

  of a basketball

  or another girl

  so if he gets the courage

  to ask me out

  I’ll say yes

  and worry about it

  later.

  I kiss Annabel’s photo

  I kiss Annabel’s photo every night

  it’s an old voodoo trick

  the ghost taught me

  for years after Mum died

  I kissed her photo

  other kids had teddy bears

  and tapes of Playschool

  I cuddled a photo

  I tucked myself in with a ghost

  and dreamed

  of holidays that lasted all summer

  and parents holding hands

  and games where I always won

  and the ghost walked to my room

  to push my hair back

  and smile love.

  When Mum wasn’t there

  and the holidays dried up

  I ripped the photo from the album

  and kissed it once every night

  until the ghost came.

  So I kiss Annabel’s photo

  and work my spell

  just long enough to hope.

  It can’t do any harm

  even if it won’t do any good

  but you tell that

  to the ghost and me.

  There’s more to life than Annabel

  There’s more to life than Annabel.

  There’s Science with Mr Edwards

  rattling his bones as he

  pours one chemical into another

  and on Monday morning

  twenty-eight students concentrate hard

  and hope for an explosion.

  There’s cold roast-beef sandwiches

  on white bread

  the canteen special on Monday

  and served till Friday.

  There’s lunchtime

  Ezra and me sitting on the fence

  hoping no-one asks us to join

  in basketball

  or football

  or putting long cold scratches in the duco

  of the Principal’s new Volvo.

  There’s the books from the library

  and the last five I’ve read

  have been about aliens

  invading the world

  and two teenage heroes with computers

  and I swear I’m ripping up my library card.

  There’s more to life than Annabel

  but not this week

  when I’ve sent her a Valentine

  and right now

  I’m leaving Ezra on the fence

  as I see her walking across the oval

  and I’m asking her

  out

  and was that a smile that creased her mouth . . .

  First date

  We’re in the back seat

  Annabel and me

  our knees are touching

  our elbows

  our legs

  our shoulders

  I’m looking straight

  but I can see her

  next to me on the bus

  our first date

  witnessed by the early evening commuters

  of the 482 Express to town.

  The next three hours

  Annabel and I

  will spend touching

  on the bus

  at the movies

  on the way home

  I hope I can stay sane

  all night

  not to say anything

  but say enough

  not to do anything

  but do enough.

  Desiree said

  “just be yourself”

  Dad said

  “try to act better than you normally do”

  while the ghost smiled all afternoon

  and beckoned me to reflect in the mirror.

  I’d like to tell Annabel

  about the ghost

  and Desiree’s moustache

  and my poetry

  but such secrets

  stay hidden

  longer than a night on the bus.

  Annabel turns and asks what I’m thinking

  My Dad whispers

  “I’m thinking about the movie”

  Desiree shouts

  “about you Annabel”

  the ghost:

  “how nice it is to sit beside you”

  as I gulp and ask

  “what do you think of facial hair on women?”

  as the bus

  brakes sharply

  at the red light.

  Annabel writes poetry

  After the movie

  which I can’t remember

  over coffee tasting of mud

  with the banging of pinball machines

  our hands 110 centimetres apart

  on the shiny formica table

  one hour left

  to walk home

  one hour

  for me to say something

  I blurt out the only word I shouldn’t:

  “poetry”

  and Annabel’s eyes,

  dulled by cafe noise and smoke,

  flash!

  She writes poetry!

  but not about her family

  her friends

  her future

  she writes about bodies

  their shape

  the way they walk

  the hinge of an arm around a waist

  the machine rhythm of gymnastics

  the bumping uglies that make brothers & sisters

  and I forgot what we said

  but we said enough

  and I talked about the ghost

  without feeling foolish

  and all the way home along Narrowneck Road

  the stars did their stuff

  for Annabel and me

  and poetry!

  Annabel

  Look at her nose

  yes

  look at her hair

  yes

  at her vegetarian eyes

  yes yes yes

  she is a cyclone

  a calm

  I float I spin
>
  when I touch her arm.

  Annabel and the ghost

  I’m not scared

  or embarrassed

  I’m excited

  he’s telling me about the ghost

  and I can see who she is

  and it makes perfect sense.

  I remember being ten years old

  and the stories my Mum

  told me late at night

  with the Southern Cross

  tracking across my bedroom

  and Mum making it part of each story

  as she sat on the bed.

  And Dad’s snoring

  with Mum whispering “Quiet, George,

  you’ll wake Annabel”

  and how I tried hard not to giggle.

  And the pancakes stacked

  with strawberries and maple syrup

  we’d have every Saturday breakfast

  in fact, still have every Saturday

  and for seven years I’ve reached

  for a second helping

  and winked at Mum.

  And as Jack and I walk down Narrowneck Road

  I look up at the Southern Cross

  and think of Mum and Dad

  sleeping now, Dad still snoring

  and I think of Jack

  at ten years old

  alone

  hugging a photo

  and the ghost

  makes complete and perfect sense.

  The ghost is away

  The ghost didn’t come home last night

  I waited until dawn

  excited

  with the news of Annabel and me

  I crept into Dad’s room

  and saw the empty mirror

  the clothes in Desiree’s room

  remained unfolded

  Desiree asleep in her Levi’s

  and the echo of the ghost

  hung loose

  I climbed out the window

  and sat on the roof

  one eye on the chimney

  thinking of a ghost parading as Santa

  the Southern Cross faded

  as the sun crept up the mountain

  and I called the ghost

  and called again

  and felt nine years old

  waiting for Mum to come home

  so I could tell her my day before I slept.

  I climbed back through the window and into bed

  and thought of Annabel

  but she had the face of the ghost

  and I must have dozed

  as I woke sweating.

  I looked at the calendar

  seven years today

  my Mum died

  and now I know

  why the ghost

  is away.

  The fireplace

  Our house has a fireplace

  one of those slow-combustion models

  with the glass door

  and the soot-black internal chimney.

  My Dad cuts the Ironbark

  with an axe he’s had since he was a kid

  the sound of chopping

  is the winter pulse of this suburb.

  At night, Desiree moves her chair

  close to the fire

  and talks on the phone

  Dad rests his coffee on the grill

  to keep it warm

  while he goes out into the mist

  for another log.

  At midnight, alone, I open the fireplace door

  and feed my poems on Annabel

  to the flame.

  The words dance with a heat and light

  they never had on the page

  each flicker warming my hands.

  I go back to my room

  to write some more food

  for the fire burning

  in this house.

  Ezra finds the hut

  If you follow the bush track

  off Narrowneck Road for 500 metres

  you’ll see the ghost gum

  the one with the arrow

  pointing west

  follow that track

  until you reach the bridge

  before the creek

  there’s an overgrown wallaby track

  push through it

  until you see the tree

  with Jack & Annabel’s initials.

  Quiet now.

  look up at the ridge

  on the left

  see the hut

  built by bushwalkers fifty years ago

  if you go there after school

  you’ll find Annabel & Jack

  but hey,

  don’t go there after school.

  Megalong creek hut

  Ever since Desiree told me about this hut

  I knew it would be the special place

  for Annabel and me

  somewhere silent.

  her parents

  my Dad

  even the ghost couldn’t find us here.

  we’ve cleaned it

  evicted the resident possum

  nailed the walls and roof back

  the wind still creeps in

  but we hold each other to keep warm

  we take turns to tell stories

  as the trees brush against the roof

  and the world clouds over

  in the winter afternoon.

  We’ve planned a night alone here

  but

  neither of us has that much courage

  one ghost is enough to handle.

  still

  every afternoon with the thought of homework

  and school fading

  we run through the bush

  to our special place

  and disappear

  from sight

  Annabel and the wild orchard

  Sometimes I don’t want to reach our hut

  I want to take Jack’s hand

  follow the trail

  down to the six foot track

  pick up a snake stick

  and like an old miner

  follow that track to the valley

  and there, with Jack,

  set up camp

  pick apples from the wild orchard

  watch Jack try to build a fire

  and when he’s sweating with frustration

  offer him the matches

  and laugh all through dinner

  and at night watch the stars

  no higher than the cliff walls

  and the two of us

  holding tight for warmth

  as sleep wraps around

  we dream in the soil

  of our days

  moist, firm, full

  until the sun

  wakes

  and offers us time

  to walk

  holding hands

  in the wild orchard.

  Making a Living

  The funeral

  We were twelve

  the dead bird on the steps

  Ezra touched the matted feathers

  with a stick

  and wondered aloud

  why it flew into a closed window.

  We got Dad’s shovel

  buried it under the fir tree

  lashed two sticks together

  wrote RIP on the cross-stick

  and stood looking at the grave

  Ezra said he’d never seen

  anything dead before

  I said I had

  and walked back to the house.

  Desiree

  Late at night

  when Jack and Dad are asleep

  I stand naked in my bedroom

  in front of the mirror

  I look at my breasts

  in the surgery fluorescent light

  of my Mother’s death

  I touch them

  feel my nipples harden unwillingly

  it can kill me

  this thing, this woman thing.

  I find a different lump every night

  and lie awake

  wishing it away.


  My last boyfriend tried to understand

  he even offered to inspect them for me

  his hand made me forget, for a time

  but I know

  it’s not the cancer

  or the pain

  it’s the waiting

  as I pull the sweater

  gently

  over my head.

  Careers

  It’s Careers Advice Week

  where a very serious man

  in a white shirt and thin black tie

  talks to us, individually, about our futures.

  With ten per cent unemployment

  and all of us desperate to avoid

  thinking about next year

  I don’t like his chances.

  When Ezra saw him yesterday

  he told the Advisor that his ambition

  was to never see his father again.

  Now, knowing Ezra’s father

  this seemed a worthy occupation

  the Advisor handed Ezra a TAFE Handbook

  and made another appointment.

  I’ve decided with my five minutes

  I’m going to talk non-stop

  and, hopefully, walk out.

  I’m going to tell him

  I want to marry Annabel

  write a book of poems

  even people like him could read

  buy a house on a cliff

  find a cure for nose hair

  win a medal at the Poetry Olympics1

  be interviewed regularly on television

  and never enter a school again

  and never wear a white shirt with a thin black tie.

  * * *

  1 POETRY OLYMPICS actually happen. The idea was originated in London by poet Michael Horowitz

  Selling up

  Last night

  a Real Estate Agent visited.

  Dad showed him the house

  the view

  avoided the cubbyhouse

  promised to trim the hedge

  they sat down and talked money

  and buyers moving west

  Interest Rates

  the chance of a quick sale

  and all through the meeting

  Dad kept looking around

  as though somebody was watching him

  until the Agent got worried

  left his card

  told Dad to “discuss it with the wife”

  by then

  Desiree and I knew

  we weren’t selling

  because Mum

  had already made her views

  hauntingly clear.

  The wreck

  last night

  I dreamed I died.

  A car accident

  Ezra beside me