By Vivianna Vitikka
The plane touched down, a bony singing swan
‘You are home,’ so I’m told:
this is home.
Over thirteen thousand kilometres
and thirty-eight hours
you are twelve years old and the trees don’t shuffle the way you’d have them
The lorikeets cock their heads when you speak,
they know their place in these suburbs –
It is here
under the endless blue sky
where the sun blinds
scorching, nurturing,
feeding
on flaking white skin
the sun rubs off in your sleep, dry snow in the sheets
Down the street Paddle Pop wrappers
lie scattered by the milkbar
mynas fight the magpies over their liquefied insides,
battling on scolding pavement
bare feet can’t withstand
A question rooted in your brain
Existing neither here nor there
every roundabout takes you exactly where you started
no matter which exit you take
even if,
rising above, about thirteen thousand kilometres
looking down at your twelve-year-old self
and everything that comes with it
in these fields of houses with single-glazed windows,
swimming pools empty or larvae-filled,
mailboxes brimmed with real estate,
your brother kicking the football across the quiet
streets, towards you but inevitably into
neighbouring yards
It never gets so cold as it did, your toes
never feel too big under layers, instead
they scurry away from a flat possum
feasted on by insects who also know their place in all this,
while you,
the poor possum
so much of you is spread wide in some space
inspected and pulled apart in strings
But you weren’t meant to grow up
here. You are home
This is home. Here, you’ve stayed
despite your threats.
Stuck and shifting
your cold feet side to side, arms
up high with your fellow birds
waiting for the football to bite,
screaming down beaches and rooftops,
rooftops near beaches and near hills
looking for a bedroom with a sea-view
so when you wake, if you look past the flare in the window
maybe then you can see home.
