I met a fox last night who was carrying a dead possum.
Foxes, unlike possums, are not native to Australia,
but neither are white people so no judgement.
I got here the same way she did.
Her ancestors came here because rich Englishmen wanted to have fox hunts in the bush,
mine came here because rich Englishmen wanted a distant prison colony.
We are all where we are on this planet because of the dances our ancestors did
with rich Englishmen
and native possums.
I walk on stolen land under a sun that burns my pale skin,
ripping the dead ideas of dead men out from my skull like thorns.
If you ever need to find me just look for the trail
of rosary beads and communion wafers,
of Murdoch papers and nice guy rapists.
If I am dead when you find me please weave fairy lights through my bones
and leave a sign that reads HERE LIES EMPTINESS.
Maybe lizards and frogs will play in this ribcage.
Maybe native flowers will grow in this skull.
I don’t know what any of this is or where any of it is going.
I’m blown through this horny graveyard party like a dandelion seed in the wind.
The old crone told me cosmic joy would cost me everything,
but when I paid her she showed me the money was only leaves.
I accidentally scared the fox off by flicking on the porch light,
causing her to drop her dinner in her haste to escape.
I switched the light off and waited in the dark for her to reclaim her prize,
which she eventually did,
slinking off into the night with the possum.
“I’ll see you around,”
I said to the both of them.
Fruit bats passed overhead.
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