Love, Ghosts, & Facial Hair

by Steven Herrick

in the wreck

  his teeth dripping with blood

  we hung upside down

  one breath away from the cliff edge

  with the ghost gum holding our sway

  and I touched Ezra

  and shivered

  I struggled to the door

  and pushed

  as the tree surrendered

  we toppled

  the car, Ezra, me

  kept falling

  until I landed

  this morning.

  Dad didn’t come home last night

  Dad didn’t come home last night

  me and the ghost waited

  listened for the tyre crunch on the drive

  for the drunken key in the lock

  the ghost wasn’t worried

  she sat in front of her mirror

  and looked at the family photos.

  I lay in bed

  thinking of road accidents

  back street gangs

  police RBT units on the highway

  then I remembered the woman

  the one Dad refused to tell us about

  as he nervously straightened his tie

  and combed his hair (first time this week).

  I thought I was the one

  supposed to be out all Saturday night

  not my fifty-year-old father!

  why am I alone in bed

  with my sensible pyjamas

  and a good book?

  why is Desiree snoring

  when our father’s out on the town

  and we’re home by midnight

  and why, why is the ghost still smiling

  does she know something I don’t . . .

  Sunday lunch

  Cold chicken, fresh bread

  Dad and me on the veranda

  Dad still in last night’s clothes

  we eat quietly

  as he tells me

  about his only big date in seven years.

  The dinner, the wine

  their children in every glass

  and all the time

  Dad’s trying to flirt

  until dessert

  when he gives up and tells

  this woman of his wife and her death

  and the years drinking early evening

  with his workmates

  and coming home to us

  and the photos on his dresser

  and over coffee it takes hours

  to tell a life story

  and to listen to hers

  and that’s what they did all night

  (a rueful smile over our chicken).

  He talked all night, and listened.

  he didn’t mention his work

  he talked like he’s talking to me now

  he talked until he knew

  the ghost still haunted him

  and always would.

  This morning Dad came home

  to the photos on the dresser

  and planned another big date

  seven years from today.

  The earthquake

  The earth moved last night

  the ancient plates under our mountain shifted

  as windows spooked and rattled

  the lampshade cracked

  and our wedding photo

  fell off the dresser.

  Desiree slept

  Jack snored

  I fastened the window

  turned off the lamp

  picked up the photo

  and spent an hour holding the frame

  getting married all over again

  while the earth

  threatened.

  This morning

  the papers reported

  3.5 on the Richter Scale

  and no damage

  I didn’t mention the wedding

  but all morning I felt

  the cruel aftershock.

  What I do for a living

  I spend my day in front of this ignorant computer

  typing stories

  no, not stories (stories have heart)

  typing articles

  on our trade deficit and unemployment figures

  so people can read and worry over their cornflakes.

  At lunch I cross Broadway

  for a drink and a sandwich

  forgetting my health deficit and waistline figures.

  The other night Desiree asked me

  why I wanted to be a journalist

  and it took me exactly forty-nine minutes to

  think of an answer

  and that was a simple “for the money”

  because during forty-eight of those forty-nine

  minutes

  I remembered their childhood

  Jack’s first day at school

  his little wave

  as the teacher lead him away

  and Desiree’s laugh every morning

  at something on television

  and how it woke the house

  and I realised I don’t give a stuff

  about politics, or inflation,

  or rising interest rates,

  as long as I keep hearing Desiree’s laugh

  and seeing Jack’s pride

  then I know what I really do

  for a living.

  All her brain cells

  I know why Desiree

  doesn’t have a boyfriend

  and hasn’t had one

  for a long time.

  it’s because

  she has perfect eyesight

  and all her brain cells.

  Solo Desiree

  Jack and Annabel have made love

  I can tell

  Jack doesn’t bother me any more with questions

  on girls, or sex,

  or what he should do about his appearance.

  He looks like one of those TV evangelists

  who’ve discovered God

  and the miracle of money

  it’s almost unbearable, his swagger,

  but at least

  he doesn’t brag out loud.

  Annabel’s OK too!

  I spent the first hour after meeting her

  looking at her top lip

  and I’m pleased to report

  there’s a good trace of darkening hair

  and thank Christ she doesn’t giggle!

  or talk about music.

  Even Dad liked her

  but I think he was just happy to see Jack

  bring a friend home

  although he doesn’t seem so pleased

  when he meets my boyfriends

  not that there’s been anyone for a while

  I’m going through my Nun stage

  you know, wearing black

  talking quietly

  keeping my desires religiously confined

  but not for much longer.

  If Jack and Annabel keep pawing each other

  when I’m watching television

  I’m breaking my vows

  problem is,

  men are easy to get rid of

  harder to find.

  The ghost spoke to me last night

  The ghost spoke to me last night

  I was sleeping

  I turned to the window where she sat

  she whispered for me to tell Desiree

  to stop looking into the mirror

  and then she disappeared

  the next morning

  I told Desiree

  she didn’t believe me at first

  then she gave me a kiss

  went to her room

  and came out in her favourite dress

  and white stockings

  she said she was having the day off

  Dad smiled, and said he was too

  they both looked at me, pleading

  for me to jig school

  this house is going mad.

  Father of the year

  It’s been a month since Dad had his big date

  in that time he’s devoted

  ever
y Saturday to Des and me

  we’ve been out for lunch

  to the movies

  on a ferry cruise

  and last week we camped the night

  in the Blue Gum Forest

  Des and I are worried we’ll never get rid of him!

  He talks to me about Annabel

  and encourages Desiree to go out more

  he tries to cook dinner

  we have long involved talks

  on our life, our school, our future

  it’s like living with your Deputy Principal.

  I’ve seen Dad in my room

  looking at my wall photos

  he’s started ironing Desiree’s clothes

  twice he’s increased our allowance

  he’s talking of us going on holiday together

  he said I could bring Annabel

  and Desiree could bring anyone

  (Desiree looked ill)

  he’s stopped drinking wine with dinner

  he cuts the fat off his meat

  last week I saw him preparing to go jogging

  I occasionally catch him looking at me as I read

  he looks satisfied

  he gets home early from work

  and wants to play cricket with me in the backyard

  he sits alone in the cubbyhouse

  staring across the valley

  he says “nigh nigh” to us, as though we’re

  children again.

  Our Dad is going for father of the year

  and slowly sending Desiree and me

  completely mad.

  Annabel writes a poem for english

  I have been told by my English teacher

  she with the nervous twitch

  and perfect vowels

  stolen from British movies at the Savoy

  that I should write a poem

  as an assignment

  and that the poem should be on NATURE,

  and I should make full use of

  simile, metaphor, and alliteration.

  Now, I like birds, and streams,

  and the odd tree as much as anyone

  but if I’m told to do something

  so bloody narrow again I’ll

  I’ll

  I’ll

  Nature

  (A poem with simile, metaphor, & alliteration)

  the King Parrot

  drops like a stone

  like my Dad when he’s drunk

  like a Nun’s eyes before God

  the King Parrot

  is stone

  is drunk

  is dead

  dead door-nail dead darkly

  definitely damn dead (oh dear!)

  And as I hand this limp piece of protest

  to my teacher

  I see my English marks drop faster than

  faster than

  faster than a dead parrot!

  Winter Annabel

  I’m sick of people talking about

  this country as being only

  sun, beaches, and the outback.

  Where I live it’s cold, windy,

  and the mist drops heavy in January.

  While people fry on Bondi

  I wear an overcoat and a wet nose

  and every house

  keeps a stack of firewood ready all summer.

  Sure, it only snows a few times a year

  but those winds punching through Megalong Valley

  make my teeth ache with cold

  and I love it all!

  I’ve never seen the sense

  in lying comatose on a pile of sand

  turning pink

  or swimming in each other’s effluent

  that passes as surf.

  And I like how the rail-thin Dolly victims

  in Year 11 desperately try to look slim

  in two jumpers and an overcoat.

  My idea of fashion is a flannelette shirt

  and Levis in front of the fireplace.

  People say the beach is the great equaliser

  who are they kidding?

  sit at Bondi and watch the boys flex

  and the girls walk bolt upright

  it looks like a nightmare episode of Baywatch.

  The true equaliser is the mountain cold

  and stacks of clothes flung together

  maybe then we’d listen to what each other is saying

  instead of checking out the best bods.

  And as I wrap another layer

  around my Size 10

  I think of Jack’s favourite saying:

  “today’s tan is tomorrow’s cancer”.

  I walk outside

  and whistle at the wind.

  Echoes

  My son is seeing a girl

  My son is seeing a girl

  and a ghost.

  I hear him talking to Annabel

  in the chill afternoon

  and I hear whispers

  to the ghost

  in the long night.

  I haven’t told him I know.

  What could I say?

  In the past year

  he has grown tall

  his eyes sparkle the way of his mother’s

  and when he’s reading

  I look at him with pride.

  I know who the ghost is

  I’m glad they talk

  I stare into the mirror

  as the trees shadow through the window

  and I envy Jack.

  I lean against the wall and listen.

  He is talking to her

  a soft monologue

  that pumps through this house

  like an open vein.

  I try to picture the ghost

  sitting at the edge of his bed

  and the night grows suddenly dark

  and the whispers fade.

  I return to bed

  and wrap the blankets of memory

  around me, tight.

  Sex, sport, and nose hair (according to Annabel)

  Sex is what Jack and I practise at Megalong Creek.

  Sex is my parents encouraging me to go out

  early Saturday night, so they can “talk”.

  Sex leers over my shoulder at the canteen.

  Sex is the colour of the December bushfires

  with our hut feeling their hot breath.

  Sex is what the school terms “personal development”

  as our parents look worried.

  Sport is my Dad’s idea of a Sunday out.

  Sport is a short skirt in winter

  tossing a netball through the mist

  while our teacher sips coffee.

  Sport does something to the brain of an everyday

  male.

  Sport rumbles down the stairs

  knocking Year 7s over

  as it swings its gorilla arms to the oval.

  Nose Hair is what Jack thinks of more than me

  Nose Hair tickles as we kiss

  Nose Hair grows and grows and grows

  Nose Hair is the forward brother of ear hair

  Nose Hair longs to be plucked!

  Blue mountains school

  The clouds cover our school

  as impenetrable as Science

  on a Friday afternoon

  the black cockatoos crunch nuts

  and drop them from trees

  like bombs cracking the schoolyard

  Annabel and me on the seat

  our lips feeling their way

  through the mist

  when the Deputy Principal Mrs Jonestown

  like a tank

  comes lumbering through the murk

  guns blazing

  horn-rimmed glasses

  like heat-seeking missiles

  aimed at Annabel and me

  and she starts on with that

  “what sort of example is this to the

  Juniors” stuff

  and I try to defend with

  “no one can see us in this cloud”

&nbs
p; but with the predictability of someone over thirty

  she shoots a “does that make it all right”

  and now would not be the time

  to mention love, peace,

  and an end to the Cold War I fear

  so we’re marched back to class

  prisoners of war

  sentenced

  to six months hard labour

  and 2-Unit Maths

  and the clouds come in thicker

  soft cages

  hiding tanks clanking

  around the perimeter fence

  waiting . . .

  Bloody rain

  “Bloody rain” says Mr Chivers

  bouncing a basketball

  on the one dry patch of court

  “bloody rain” he nods to our Sports class

  and gives us the afternoon off.

  Bloody rain all right

  as Annabel and I run to Megalong Creek hut

  faster than we ever have in Chivers’s class

  and the exercise we have in mind

  we’ve been training for all year

  but I doubt if old Chivers

  will give us a medal if he ever finds out.

  We high-jump into the hut

  and strip down

  climb under the blankets

  and cheer the bloody rain

  as it does a lap or two

  around the mountain

  while Annabel and me

  embrace like winners should

  like good sports do

  as Mr Chivers sips his third coffee

  and twitches the bad knee

  from his playing days

  while miles away

  Annabel and I

  score a convincing victory

  and for once in our school life

  the words “Physical Education”

  make sense . . .

  Confessions

  “I like the back of your neck”

  her fingers roam

  untouched but hopefully washed territory

  I feel a twitch in my knee

  (of all places!)

  “I like your ears”

  I’ve seen my Dad’s ears grow big

  and old with him. The elephant

  with his memory in the mirror

  “I like your mouth”

  but only when it’s shut, or silent,

  keep it silent Jack

  the wet of our kiss soaks my insides

  “I like your hair”

  my Dad again

  haircut like a McDonald’s arch

  retreating to the safety of bald

  “I like your eyes”

  I look straight

  think only of the Kurdish soldier

  facing his firing squad

  seeing beyond, and never looking back.