Hybrids

Who are these ghostly figures

that levitate towards me

from the shadows

on the lunar landscape

of my dream?

They resemble people

that I loved, hated or ignored,

blended characters,

several hybrids of my mother.

New Guinean highlanders believe

the spirits of the recent dead linger

and on starless evenings of torrential rain

pipe in the quiet voice of small birds

at the doors of thatch huts of the living,

gently seeking food and maybe warmth.

I heard them in 1968

one black-ink night at Baiyer River

when enjoying hospitality of our doctor-bois.

I asked about the cheeping

I could hear above the rain:

‘Simunks!’ they told me –

and I felt unafraid.

Perhaps I should take food to bed

to feed the figures

who meet me in my dream?

The Lump

A year ago, when washing my face,

I noticed it on my jaw,

a small animal I thought,

clinging by its teeth,

then my owner found it,

and took me to the vet

who stuck it with a needle,

but it didn’t hurt.

I’ll speak to Felix:

he’ll know what to do.

He’s much travelled,

has seen many things,

throughout his nine lives,

has accumulated much wisdom.

I chose Felix because

he is an expert in feline herbology,

knows which grass to eat for fur balls,

which leaves to lick to counter a toxic mouse,

how to feign sleep when humans fight,

when to reject food out of pique.

“This is not good,” he said.

The lump is such

that surgery can’t be done,

that chemo like my mistress had

would also make me sick

as would x-rays.

Now, at least I am still eating

and in no pain.

“You’re fifteen,” Felix said,

“and have lived a full life

of prowl, skirmish, purr and sleep.

Sometimes doing nothing is the best path

and your owners will help you die.”

I thanked him for his time and love;

he licked my lump as I left.