by CHARNTEL CLEVELAND
Baby gurgles on a blanket while you plunder Nan’s yard,
dodging bindis and burrs
for the enchantment of dandelions.
You offer Nan the yellow flowers but save the fluffy ones.
Stoked with her posey,
Nan finds a vase while you blow wishes into wind.
Soon, the sun slips. Chills send you inside.
You trip over Pop’s baker boots airing by the door,
their heavy soles caked with dough and discontent.
The heater rages, slow-roasting Pop in an unsavoury marinade
of too many Tooheys and tormented day-sleep.
And it’s here where cool breeze wanes into stifled sighs,
an impending tempest broils
over anything and nothing and everything.
After dinner, Nan tucks you in with a lullaby of lies:
All is calm, All is fine.
You awake to shouts, crashes and a confected sweltering.
Aunty is here, screeching. So is her boyfriend.
He and Pop trade pushes, then drunken punches.
Nan watches on, harrowed, helpless;
her small vase of blooms shatters in the brawl.
Your parents finally show, late and faded.
Dad joins the melee, all belligerence and fists.
Mum clucks and heads straight for her chicks,
plucking you from place, nestling you in safety
— a budding dandelion caught in the squall,
bristles ripped and blown, rooted in a future
of indoor storms and eggshell walks,
but destiny’s not your only destination.
Even weeds can become wishes if you steer clear of the pricks.