Content Warnings (click to reveal)
Discussed: drowning, medical procedures
At Surge Capacity
No dipping your toe in and
testing the waters:
it’s a plunge and you’re away -
knots downriver before you stop spinning -
feet cycling through the murk,
stronger swimmers racing by you, in the current,
rapids approaching, jostling
files, trolleys and assorted surgical stainless steel.
A bull shark in the ward,
your consultant asks a question,
not so tricky if you only had time to think but you
spill out an answer then hold your breath as she
freestyles on, powerfully,
down the corridor awash.
It’s a one-way stream
bulging with bodies of term one interns,
some dog-paddling after their teams,
others staring at computer screens
bobbing in front of their fatigue,
or risking single-handed rescues
while their colleagues are carried
out of sight around a bend.
Patients drift, await your half-heard instructions,
hoping for recovery, that their families might be
waiting safely back on dry land,
little problems washed away in this flood,
or become big as sewerage.
Those pulled under are snared in tubing-
choked sharps-studded maelstroms.
You see a spouse float by,
wide-eyed,
keeping her chin above water.
Brush Turkey’s Place
Soon after my arrival at his place
A thump on my roof scared me from my nightshift sleep
Not a stranger - it was him
Fast food colours festooned around his head and neck
Finding grubs in the leaf-littered gutters
His shed-sized nest on the rockface behind the house
Despite previous tenants’ attempts to turf him
I spent Saturdays sweeping his mess
From my paths and platform
Tapping on my sliding door signalled his need
For some frozen bread crust from my hand
Muted crooning when stretching on his nest
After raking down all the fallen forest debris above
Marked the claw-end of the sinuous day
His hens gathered round him
From their summer sojourns in the escarpment’s backblocks
Showing how handsomely he tended his place
How he heaped on my landlord’s distress
Oh, the fuss... best evict him or else
Yes, drains might flood and wreck the place
And they did, but only my basement-bound boxes
Standing at my kitchen sink I once saw
A sudden upward gesture from the nest
A brown blur headed for the overhang
Of tall trees shielding my house from google-eyes
A baby bursting from its home egg
Already ready to leave, no trial runs
With the cats and the sea eagles searching
After chill hours of scratching out my concrete living
Exposed to air-conditioned elements, I long to lie
Not encased in a doona like a womb
But buried deep in heated sweet-smelling leaf litter
Carefully tousled and temperature-tested with a tender beak
Until I am ready again to break the mounded surface of night
And rush up into leaf-filtered morning
Bron Morrison is a writer from the Central Coast NSW. Bron has published poetry and non-fiction in assorted places, has won prizes for poetry, and is currently editing her first novel manuscript, a speculative fiction for new adults. In her spare time, she does a bit of doctoring, and shares a lovely bit of Darkinjung land with her partner, cat and a family of bowerbirds.
Locative Magazine 