FOX II
I wore the stole at school,
snuck it out of the house,
carried it in my bag until I was out
of Aunt Hilda and Father’s sight,
then slipped it over my head.
The sleeping fox
warmed me,
absorbed the sense of dread
that had descended.
It was nice to have Mother close.
I felt her arms
draped around me.
The kids in the class said:
You’re weird.
You’re disgusting!
It’s a dead fox.
You stink!
Jeffrey said:
Red fox. He’s sly.
And he stroked
the soft fur hide.
A NOTE
Aunt Hilda waved an envelope.
You must not take that fox to school.
It is not right. It is not!
I didn’t answer.
I ate my dinner quietly,
eyes downcast,
my fork making swirling patterns
in the thick, brown gravy
on my plate.
Later, Aunt Hilda spoke
to Father, who was drinking port
and staring out the window.
Wolfgang! You need to
snap out of this ennui…
this Verzweiflung.
I have a note from her school.
She wore that stole—the fox!—to class.
You must do something!
It is not normal, Wolfgang.
She is strange.
You must do something.
I slipped out to my laboratory,
and hid my lovely fox at the bottom
of a large cardboard box.
NON-VERBAL READING
The next morning
as Father folded his newspaper
his gaze caught my eye
and held it.
I waited for him to talk,
but he studied me through half-closed eyes
like I was a specimen
in his laboratory.
And then he nodded
and smiled his close-lipped smile, and asked,
How is school, Lottie?
It is fine, I replied.
He considered me further,
took mental notes with the same furrowed brow
he wore when he read or wrote.
Good, he said. That is good.
What are you reading? he asked
of the library book in front of me.
It’s about Egypt. It’s about tombs.
Interesting. He paused. Is it interesting?
Yes. Yes, it is.
And how are you?
I wondered what he meant.
I am good. I am well.
He scrutinised me a little more,
gathering non-verbal evidence perhaps,
before he finally said, I am glad.
That is good news.
We do not need to worry.
He opened his newspaper
and went back to reading.
JEFFREY II
Jeffrey walked home
from school with me
one warm afternoon.
We went the long way,
skirted the suburbs,
crossed the paddocks.
Jeffrey talked softly
sometimes,
but mostly not at all.
He lifted rocks and logs
and we watched worms wriggle
and ants and slaters scatter.
Where are the corellas?
I asked when we walked
in their empty territory.
Jeffrey shrugged. They move.
They fly away.
Why stay?
He caught a small skink,
opened his hand to show
the cool, flecked skin.
He stroked the sleek back,
smiled his slow smile.
Then let it go.
FRIENDS
At home, the kitchen was warm
with oven heat
and the smell of apple strudel.
Jeffrey sat at the table.
I poured us milk
and raided the cake tin.
When Aunt Hilda bustled in
she stopped and stared,
fiddled with her apron strings.
This is Jeffrey, Aunt Hilda.
He’s come to look at my specimens.
Jeffrey rose from his chair and nodded.
Hello, Jeffrey. Nice to meet you.
Aunt Hilda looked him up and down
slowly, one eye narrowed.
Then a smile lifted her face,
and she said: Good, Lottie. This is good.
It is nice to have a friend.
DEAD
We went to the shed,
entered the dark womb of it,
the fusty fug of it.
I flicked the light, and my creatures
were illuminated
and so was Jeffrey’s big smile.
His eyes shone—
the oily liquid of them
made my heart leap.
He stood for a long time,
his gaze travelling over
fur and feathers, beaks and claws.
His smile slowly closed.
Eventually, he said:
They’re all dead.
His eyes, gentle and quizzical,
turned to mine.
Why do you keep them?
I felt my heart tighten
and slump.
I thought he’d understand.
I keep them because I love them.
I keep them because
they are beautiful.
And then I surprised myself and said:
I keep them because
they remind me of Mother.
MOTHER MEMORY II
She is lying on my small bed
crying—quietly, softly.
I stand and stare at her
wet face, her wet hair.
I touch the smooth skin of her cheek.
She opens her swollen eyes,
then gathers me up,
folds me into a warm, damp hug.
I smell her perfume,
feel the beat of her heart.
Adrianna, Adriaaanna.
Where are you? Adrianna.
Father gently calls from some dark
other part of the house.
REMEDY
Wolfgang, Charlotte needs
an interest, a hobby.
Something to occupy her time.
Why do I need a hobby? I asked.
Father looked up from the morning paper.
First at Aunt Hilda,
then at me.
A hobby? He frowned.
Yes, Aunt Hilda said. It will keep her busy.
Father nodded. I chewed my toast.
I am busy, I said.
It will keep you out of trouble.
I am not in trouble.
Hush! You need something
to keep you busy—sport or something.
Leave it with me.
Father put down the paper
rose, kissed my head,
and left.
INVASION
The days warmed, and the shadows
beneath the robinia strengthened.
In the shed, the fusty
smell of death swelled.
One day, before school,
I flicked a small black ant
off the top
of the aquarium.
When I returned that afternoon
there was a thick trail of ants
climbing the shed wall.
Inside, the floor was a dark sea
and my poor creatures
writhed as if alive.
Ants marched up my legs
biting flesh.
I hit and slapped and swore
and the air reeke
d.
BURIAL
Father dug a hole at the base
of the apricot tree.
With gardening gloves
and kitchen tongs
he removed my
ant-infested creatures,
my beautiful,
spoiled specimens.
Placed them all
into the hole,
covered them
with dirt.
The sound of shovel
striking ground.
The sound of earth
layering earth.
Like a blow,
sunk my breath,
filled my heart
with the dead
weight of
death.
SOLITUDE
I did not go to school
the next day or the next.
I did not want to go
ever again.
I stayed in bed,
lay on my back and slept,
or stared
at the blank ceiling and
the dust motes
that swirled around,
catching light
from a crack in the curtain.
I watched them dance,
sparkle and glitter.
I longed to feel some
of that magic,
but I was weighed down, heavy.
I too had been buried
beneath a tonne of soil
in that mass grave.
DARK RECESSES
On the third day
I could hear the heated
but hushed voices
of Aunt Hilda and Father.
Father came into my room,
sat on my bed,
studied my face,
stroked my hair and said:
It is hard to lose
anything or
anyone
we are close to.
It is good to feel sad.
It is good to cry.
It is good to grieve.
Tears swelled in my eyes.
Father’s voice was soft and gentle
and full of pain.
In his eyes I saw
what I felt.
It was as if I had travelled
the distance
to his heart,
to the dark recesses
of his grief.
He offered me his hand.
Come. Let us sit in the lounge,
in the chair by the window
with the sun.
A GIFT FROM AUNT HILDA
This is for you, Lottie.
Aunt Hilda sat next to me,
passed me a woven basket.
Girls need to know how to sew.
I took off the lid and inside were
coloured cottons,
multi-sized needles, a thimble
and a needle threader.
It is good to learn. It is useful.
She passed me some fabric
and an assortment of buttons.
We will start with these.
The buttons were easy to stitch.
The time passed quickly, and
Aunt Hilda was happy.
You are good with the thread.
She showed me how to sew
a running stitch,
a back stitch,
a basting stitch.
My favourites were the
hemming stitch and
the invisible stitch.
My work was fine and neat.
I did not dislike
this small labour,
this benign act.
It buoyed me, and
for some time
it was all that I did:
stitch, stitch
stitch.
FATHER’S REMEDY I
A blackbird lay on a table.
Its orange beak
and sleek black feathers
shone under a spotlight.
An array of tools and materials
were assembled next to the bird:
a scalpel, silver scissors,
a needle and thread,
cotton wool and straw
and a dish holding
tiny black beads.
The man sliced the belly,
pulled out pink innards
peeled the wings
and body from the bones,
scooped out cerebral matter,
and removed the eyes
and tongue
until it was a formless
feather jacket.
And then he rebuilt the bird:
filled its body and breast
and eye sockets,
wired the wings,
stitched the wound and
mounted the little feet on a branch.
TAXIDERMY II
I could not think of anything
other than that beautiful bird
as I sewed on buttons
and stitched fabric
for Aunt Hilda.
Wolfgang! she had cried
last night over dinner
when I told her of the magical man
who brought the blackbird
back to life.
It was like a remaking,
a re-creation, a reinvention.
Father smiled at me
from his chair,
his knife and fork glinting.
Wolfgang! That is ghoulish.
This is not the solution.
Aunt Hilda waved a ladle in the air.
She is a girl. A girl!
What were you thinking?
RAINBOW
On the circular side table
the button box sat,
as I unpicked, unpicked, unpicked
and restitched, restitched
until perfect.
A bright strip of light
lit up the faded shirt
on my lap. There was a sudden
loud smack!
A drip of blood from my thumb,
a needle prick.
Did the window crack?
On the pane of glass
was a dark smear.
I sucked my thumb,
drew out more blood
and a metallic taste.
I watched a dark drip
slip slowly down the windowpane.
A reddish tinge
mixed with the green and white
stain of bird shit.
Outside, on the ground,
lay a rainbow lorikeet.
It was warm to hold.
Its eyes were closed.
I lifted its downy-feathered chest
to my cheek, but
could feel no heartbeat.
IMPLEMENTS
When the bird was boxed
under my bed,
Annie and I collected the implements,
tools of the trade:
tweezers, fabric scraps,
needle and thread,
sharp sewing scissors.
That night,
while Father was dozing
in front of the television,
when Aunt Hilda
had gone home,
Annie and I slipped into the study
in search of a knife.
We closed the door,
flicked on the light,
silently opened drawers,
until we found
the wood-encased
folded pocketknife
with its shiny razor tip.
MIDNIGHT I
When the house settled
and father’s soft snores
moved from lounge
to bedroom,
we lay down a sheet,
set up our tools,
slid the boxed bird from
under the bed,
lifted the corpse
onto our makeshift
operating table.
We cut and sliced,
gouged,
pulled and tugged,
disembowelled.
&n
bsp; There was some fluid,
a little dried blood.
We balled fabric
to stuff the cavity,
threaded the needle and sewed
the newly formed,
strangely figured shape.
When the bird was upright
its blue head
flopped heavily.
Its flaming chest
was unevenly puckered.
Its wings and legs
had no strength.
It eyes, red-rimmed,
had lost their sheen.
It was not beautifully remade;
it was awkwardly dead.
A FLARE OF LIGHT
School was a fog; my head
leaden from lack of sleep
lolled on the desk.
All day the little corpse,
the grotesque mutation,
fluttered through my thoughts.
I wanted to open it up,
to begin again,
unsew, unstuff, repeat.
I thought about the stages
of the taxidermy demonstration,
focused on the details.
Mr Morris droned on
about elements and compounds
and ignited a ribbon of magnesium,
and in that flare of light,
there was a flash of memory—
I must lighten the head,
remove the tongue,
scoop out the brain,
then remodel, restuff, restitch
the crumpled little bird
that lay in its box
beneath my bed.
BLOOD I
On the walk home from school
Annie and I passed a cluster
of bottlebrush trees.
Their fallen flowers created
perfect red circles
like pools of blood.
The afternoon was warm.
Fat dark clouds skimmed the sky.
Annie sniffed the air
like some albino wolf.
There will be rain tonight,
she said. A storm is coming.
We studied the birds:
sparrows, galahs, magpies.
We watched the way they moved—
their waddle, their flit, their hop,
the stretch of their wings
and the way they cocked their heads.
I thought of my mangled lorikeet.
It is a raggedy bird
full of dead cotton.
You need wire and sawdust
and beads for the eyes.
Annie was right. I needed
materials, more tools.
We will rummage the shed
when we get home,
Annie said. We will raise
that bird from the dead.
BLOOD II
The Art of Taxidermy Page 4
