IAN C SMITH lives in Australia with his wife and four sons. His short fiction has appeared in Australian Book Review, Island, Meanjin, Overland and Westerly, and his non-fiction in The Age. His narrative verse has been published in The Weekend Australian, Best Australian Poetry 2004, Malahat Review, Quadrant and Southerly. His books of verse are published by The Ginninderra Press.


       Can’t you come back?

       Driving home from the harbour lookout
       he says, wisdom’s just a consolation prize.
       I’ve stopped drinking, tamed my temper
       I watch the tide come and leave.
       She seems to nod her approval.
       But I yearn for risk, to burn again.

       I miss our lost secret. There’s no-one, now.
       He thinks her look says, little wonder
       but with a smile, an eyebrow lifted.
       I read to find out what others think.
       I’ve given in to boring kindness.
       A woman overtaking, stares.

       Sure, my muscles are mummified
       but the old brain never sleeps, eh?
       Was that a sigh, her warm breath?
       I want time to spool backwards
       to see your arse coming to meet me
       in our numbered room on that afternoon.

       I forget things, curse the computer.
       Fate punched my clock but I can’t knock off.
       He laughs and weeps, glasses misting
       the road ahead a frightening blur.
       There is no response.
       She can’t reach across, touch his arm.


       Atmosphere

       Breath fanned cigarettes, lit candles
       shadow-dancing around walls
       the glow beneath their ash flaring
       like his illness now, then receding.

       Memories discrete, hers unknown
       his as vivid as blood on parchment
       the only documents of their time
       treachery tumult happiness hope.

       Maddening fits of loneliness
       trawl his brain through landmark dates
       reliving tardy decisions, mistakes
       the satirist in him self-abusive.

       At this abyss of abbreviated old age
       he wishes he could light those candles
       head bowed to breathless lungs
       with her again in that smoky room.


       Evolution

       Near a deserted carpark rubbish bin
       guarded by a patrolling Pacific gull
       fixing him with a prosecutor’s eye
       he crouches like a forensics expert
       to pick up several tarnished coins
       dating back to pre-decimal days
       while throwing out porn magazines
       he didn’t want to leave behind
       with the books on sea creatures’ evolution
       in the beach rental where he sorrowed
       over absent wives and girlfriends.
       Stupidity and cowardice hover
       like linked viruses in his thoughts.
       Although he has only been crazy
       about one woman, he believes
       she would irritate him now
       if she hasn’t changed as he has
       but he adapts, factoring in reasons.
       The cold dawn smells like weary sex.