Sunnybank

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Let’s not say
I’m auditioning
suburbs as lovers

I’m plenty sweet
on West End –
she knows me

and she likes me
I like her
and I know her

well enough for
taking her to bed.
The faded resin

of her scent
lingers
some sudorific afternoons

I lick my fingers
taste patchouli and
smell faint rebellion

the ethnic indeterminancy
of the wall hangings above her bed
the wide verandah webbed

with decaying prayer flags
but, oh, Sunnybank
I like you, yes I do.

I’ve got your number
and you’ve got mine
your house smells funny

but familiar after all
this tidal time
and if I die here?

Lay my body down
under sticky neon sheets
on a futon stuffed with lucky money

incense sticks in my eyes
carpet me in biko pudding
stuff chewy pads of cutchinta

under both my armpits
let the streets eat me.
I’ll be just another sour smell

coming from behind
that Asian grocery store
the one with the signs I really can’t read.

By Eleanor Jackson

Eleanor Jackson is a Filipino Australian poet, performer, arts producer, cyclist, writer, gal about town, feminist, freewheeler, and friend.

5 comments

    1. Sometimes I think you’re a spambot, but your awkward English is so endearing, I approve you comments anyway!

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