Australian Poetry
The pots are still dropped and pulled at 4 am,
but no-one fishes near seal rock for weeks, out where the shadows
of sharks and seals are interchangeable.
in the presence of a photo of
your mother, aged twenty three
her hands folded and covered in glitter
her hair long and black
The woman’s hands
are tied behind her back –
her hands are not allowed
to speak for her.
The interrogator lays his knife