It’s dark when the call comes.
Stars, still cold before dawn
Wind hisses through saltbush,
red dust rising in thin spirals.
The girl is young,
worn thin by the night,
hair damp against her skin.
The baby arrives in a rush—
wet, wailing,
a cry sharp as tin.
Light flickers.
Blood pools on lino.
4:53am.
He’s perched on the step,
like he might bolt.
Rough hands.
She sits—
no clipboard,
no questions.
He speaks sideways:
footy,
lambing,
a cousin
who didn’t make it.
The psych’s in on Tuesdays.
He shrugs.
She stays.
Mrs B’s eyes are bright today.
‘Don’t look at me like I’m gone,’ she snaps.
The nurse laughs, warm and thick.
They don’t speak of it.
The fence groans,
The wattle wilts.
They speak in shorthand–
grudges, grandkids,
who’s still kicking,
who’s gone quiet.
The heat folds in.
“This place,” she says,
“gets in your bones.”
The nurse smiles knowingly.
“Maybe that’s why we stay.”
After supper–
plastic plates scattered,
the TV’s static hum.
The daughter smooths his brow,
suitcase waiting.
A breath held—
A breath released.
Stillness.
Red dust follows her home.
She leaves her boots by the door.
Tomorrow waits–
already calling her name.
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