Kate Lumley
Disappearances in old Sydney Town
At first, she hears a footfall down the hall,
then a drumroll of doors, though there is no wind
today. She looks from her second-storey window
on the barracks’ yard, but the soldiers who marshal
like a crossword are not there. Things begin to
vanish: a hairpin, pressed flowers, a favourite
blue ribbon, her pince-nez, the pug’s silver ball.
One morning her right hand has gone —
she wonders how to play Eine kleine nachtmusik
on the pianoforte that deadens
the black women’s keening on the beach.
She pulls on her white kids gloves.
Will Molly see that one flaps?
On the Sabbath, her torso has been erased.
No matter — her corset will wrap
the absence. At morning prayer,
the Reverend Johnson takes his text from the Psalms.
Will he see I have no heart?
First published in Studio