Competition

First Prize

Heartland
by Brett Dionysius
Woodend, Qld

For Margaret Wheater

(i)
She was caught between the nexus of the built &
The unbuilt. At her stockinged toes the Bremer River
Spread its brown girth & sagged under the wooded
Slopes, its ripples folding like the cloth of some dark
Quilt. Some of it glided into the bank like a rudderless
Boat to lend a little help, but the steepness defeated it,
So it sent a shroud of liquid dust to wash her tired feet.
Above her the ironic steel smile of the pedestrian bridge
Splayed across the sky’s blue face, as head-sized rivets
Chained its metal bulk to the concrete blockhouses on
Each bank. The arch of its iron back remained fixed in
Position; from it she drew only the blankest of looks.
Its strength never tested, an icon of the cement island.
Each body engineered to stay in its perfect situation.

(ii)
She had fallen into the eye of her own storm, or
If Eden had a hidden crevasse, then snow-blind she
Had tumbled down, foot-betrayed to establish a bad
Connection with the knowledgeable world. Nothing
Linked her to this spot, but a lineage to Oates’s wild
Flight & mates who looked & looked for the memory
Of a noise heard by no one. The flare of her voice was
All shot & speechless, she could not even condemn her
Own body for its sin. Soon the glory of her painted self
Was rubbed off & no wet strokes were added to the dry
Fresco of her throat. She blended into the riverbank’s
Collage of she-oak needles & terraced rock, a green eco
Sculpture interrupted by the blood’s rude shock. When
The first wings brushed her, she gave an invisible shout.

(iii)
No grim dwarves found her encased in solid crystal,
Her momentum frozen by youth’s anti-aging spell.
Only cicadas tried to teach her their ingenious trick
Of tunnelling into the body’s rich vein & breaking
Through; the skin’s tiny supernova. But the tyranny
Of distance between the species was too great, their
Staccato language indecipherable as the rhythms of
The busy hive faded under dusk’s brittle authority.
In awe, they left their golden filigree husks behind
Pinned to her legs, tools down as if they’d return to
Finish the job of letting her out later, the downtime
Of immortality a luxury reserved for the quick-lived.
As insects clocked on for night’s twelve hour shift,
She listened to the sad echo of their factory floor.

(iv)
Moth-struck the moonlight tranced her into leaving
& she clambered free of this earth-bound shell, her
Soul’s buried toes dug into the cracked edges of her
Ribcage as she struggled out. Vertebrae stirred like a
Used ladder, the muted wood of her footfalls bounced
Across the river’s heartland as she leapt over her back’s
Sofa bulk. The tearing of herself was a silencer’s muffled
Shot. Unfurled, her damp wings dried in the sun’s dying
Rays, dust soft they lifted her at last like a father pulling
His fallen child up off a bindii patch on the front lawn
Her pain was gone. Plucked from her skin by impulsive
Grace. She let down the antennae of her hair & signalled
Her change to a receding world. Aerial now, she gained
Height as the current of transformation surged through