For My Brother

Can you remember those mornings?
Surfacing from blankets
puddled in the middle of sagging old beds,
small feet finding the chilly floor,
still varnished with last night's autumn chill.
We'd tiptoe through the house,
listening to the possums on the roof,
wearing our quiet faces.
At their door we'd halt:
eyes wide,
fingers at scrunched up lips,
and then advance,
wincing
at the door handle's squeak.
Child soldiers
on early morning patrol,
we'd reach their bed,
a vast expanse of
rumpled sheets and
sprawled limbs.
In a sudden rush we'd clamber aboard
to be pulled sleepily into their arms.
The sun painted the nearby sea,
the rosellas sang for the morning,
and our ship sailed towards dawn.

Taking and Giving

And slowly stumble
into sleep.

And she kept his hand
between her knees,
even when urgent morning
slapped her face.

And under his heart
was a tiny piece of bone
that leapt and tangled.
Crudely sewn
on his sleeve,
a map
of her face.

The sound
of taking and giving
is a solid racket in their heads,
hopeful
in their separate beds.