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by Aaron Kirby and Eleanor Malbon

another few minutes,

maybe the brown dribble from the showerhead will run clean

but work can't wait today, 

so. 

she inspects the yellow rivulets

as they collect the night sweat

trailing like new veins down her abdomen,

her legs, the drain.

a vagrant drop settles in the corner of her mouth -

taste of chalk, of iron, of something else she can't remember

(childhood smell of dry creek bed).

this is normal now. 

a spritz of fragrance hangs white particles in the air

and hides the strange dry smell.

her brother went to see the dam wall

looming absurd, holding back air

she dresses and she thinks; ‘why go there?’

 

the bike, past the old Floriade carpark
converted shipping containers 
once emergency shelter, now
men sit in folding chairs there
cigarette rolls between black fingers
washing strung, musically bare

 

there are some dogs
nothing special, or really vicious
just a pack
but she’s nervous enough
thinks how she’ll kick if she needs 

when she’s clear she thinks no further
work can't wait.
maybe the water
will be clean tomorrow.