527: The End of the World

Those men of Darwin do not dance
They prop their upper weights
on tanned arms over beer-glossed bars
as turned-from Sheilas oscillate
in hip-twisted-girl disco shapes

We had them – almost – choreographed
moves – swifter than drinks poured
by locals – those lit-girls entranced?
As if by us thin white English hordes –
we rout of travellers on their floor

I woke late to feel an end of my world
with a forced order to bed rest –
that night had left me pain-curled
in a ghost town – now unimpressed
by their ideal spot for a nuclear test

Days later you met me limping
under Uluru’s sunken otherness –
floored by my jiggering injury –
found dropped in her shaded base
as white men – white Australians –
shimmied across her pained red face

 

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