Bora born
Childlike _
The patterned nylon curtains forever
sucked at louvers always open, seldom
closed to the bush breath of gums, scented on
the rush of the afternoon's settled breeze.
His bed in the middle room, just left of the
door, must have been just about the right height.
His mum down on her knees in ritual, zoned
in on motherhood of her son's basic needs.
Powdered down on a damp towell, Johnson's drops
so slippery cool on his skin unblemished.
He watches the nappy folded quick as
on the bed; his brain absorbs everything.
Mum's three fingered lift through his ankles, pulls
him down onto the cotton nappy, his
memory of the cool slide of his body
over the fresh cotton quilt, as fresh as.
He knows he could fold the nappy, he's watched
so many times when still in relax mode.
How his mother misses his belly with
those safety pins an exercise in trust.
Sometimes it's the eenie, meenie, miney
moe on pulled toes, with mum's two fingered walk
up his body to tickle places that
better raspberries blown on him belly tight.
His heart gateway at play with his mother
survives the sense of it all's true itch.
The emotion rediscovered in an
old man's raw deep blissful meditation.
The child in him never lost always felt
closer than hands and feet sensing the rose.
Right there you'll find who you really are, go
there often, the breath a heart beat away.
- O -
© aug 2008 _ Nhawrr yirrpa
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Childlike _
Childlike _
