Last night, I found you in the old house. The hills
trembled and closed in around us. I had
imagined you lost and adrift forever,
a vaporous spiral wafting out of sight, but
you have dug your burrow here among the foxes and snakes.
Still so shadowy and stealthy, your instinct for vigilance
cannot keep you safe.
Two black cockatoos lead me to you, a betrayal you say.
Your skin smoke grey hunched; you wait impatiently for the world to end.
Unglued, your fingers flutter and drag through your hair.
Even in this sleep-world, I can’t mend the torn parts of you.
Crawling on the floor at your feet, I gather the broken pieces
as they crumble to dust in my glowing hands.
Adele Hally is an Australian writer. She is currently studying Creative Writing through Curtin University and lives on an island with her quiet partner and her loud dog.