Brendan Ryan
A man remains in his car while his mother is buried.
What I know of them is unreliable, a cousin to truth.
While my brother milks
I return to mist drifting up the fence posts.
The night’s sheet slowly evaporating
giving in to day – already a process of action.
Cows backing off the platform
make their way up the track –
the stumps of their tails flicking at flies
they regard me with surprise.
Basalt plains, sheep and beef country
drying off. The light, intense
between showers. I drive
as if my head has been opened up
through paddocks blistered
from lava flows between bare hills.
The roads dependable as elderly bachelors
take me through towns abandoned
after the storekeeper dies.