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Thylazine: The Australian Journal of Arts, Ethics & Literature                                                                                                                                 #10/thyla10k-st AUSTRALIAN POETS SERIES 10 The Poetry of Sandra Thibodeaux Selected by Coral Hull [Above] Photo of Sandra Thibodeaux by InFocus, 2002. I THE SOUND OF ONE HAND WHIPPING I ALMS I SWEET LIP I MANGOSTEEN I THE SOUND OF ONE HAND WHIPPING The sound of one human whipping another drags me from sleep and confused though I am, this is not the art of erotica, being punctuated by protest and gun-fired abuse: 'Youdidn'tyouneveryoucuntdon'tever!' He, whimpering, pink-skinned; he is a bag of failed whiteness. She, gargantuan, black-breasted; she is a gorgon, hoarding life between her thighs. She keeps this husband for a kicking cat, (and to take out the empties; check the mail). She licks his flesh to satisfy her craving without which she is condemned to any old suburban death. Published in Delivery (PressPress, 2004). Alms It's Holy Thursday, George. In another millennium, Jesus is washing the feet of his disciples. He is about to lay down his life for - no, not his friends - his enemies. This is what I'd like you to do: lay down your arms for Ali Ismael Abbas; peel the skin from your flesh and wrap his pupal ruins; drain your blood into a cup and hold it to his lips; break your body into several pieces that they may be father, mother, grandmother, brothers and sisters to him. We are two thieves, you and I, but he has done nothing wrong. Footnote: Ali Ismael Abbas was injured in a bomb blast in Baghdad that killed all of his family, save one uncle. He lost both of his arms and received burns to 60% of his body. Published in Delivery (PressPress, 2004). SWEET LIP i Tortuously, she draws each bone bangle over protesting knuckles, so as to replace it with gold and ruby, more fitting for the sophistication of Mumbai. There must be twelve on each arm, some so tight now she must clench her fist into the smallest stub to extract the prized ornament. ii At the platform, I'd mistaken her for a Moslem wowser. Her eyes were barely peekable over the flushed-red scarf that she pressed to her cheeks while jangling farewells (her father absurdly gestured to me, 'This is my only daughter, my jewel - please, you are a woman of the world - promise you'll keep her safe. Promise you'll warm her with chai and ladies' talk; cushion her way to Mumbai. Point out her station. Give her a map. Make her known to the dressmakers and, also, the police. Shield her innocence from rug dealers and those white-suited types from Bollywood who might sneer at her effortless beauty. Write her letters home for her and, God, don't let her cry. Keep her heart from breaking when she sees in dreams the lime and fuschia lines of women weaving across the sand. And don't give her hand to her husband - what would he know about saving her life?'. iii No - she's no straight-lace; no screened recollection of Purdah. Once the last roofs of Jodhpur have waved into cornflower blue, she drops the polyester pretence and reveals to her husband, and reveals to me, the sweetest pair of lips on a Rajasthani face - pert, curled, pressing dimples. I'd like to pick them off, myself. iv She keeps one solid silver ankle wedged between me and her husband who is too plain to warrant jealousy but what she knows, and I sniff out, is that he boasts a funk of grunting male. Justified by her nose, she hooks him along for swaying trips to the toilet and sink. v She beds down with her husband on the wooden slats opposite. Voyeurism is an unavoidable thrill. I watch them wriggle into their tongue-and-groove; I watch him nuzzle into her neck; I feel him breathe her amber scent, and wrap a husky arm around her as he must do every night, away from my foreign eyes that are more green than blue. MANGOSTEEN Some prize. Some prize - I hope. Hedging around him like he's something to lose - I hope for you pack that panic in where our love would have stood, two women, brave. He's some prize - such treasure you can't bear his infidelity imagined. That's it - polish him up. Remind him of his divinity and yourself of your limited shelf-life. Confirm how you teeter on the brink of a bin: fresh/stale; firm/slack; ripe/turning; mouldy. And you give yourself nothing beyond this market display. You ferment your juices, sully your aroma; here, you skin yourself, hovering by him - this potato, onion, last week's bean, as if he's some mangosteen. Some prize. Some prize - I hope he is mangosteen for then you have nothing to fear. If he isn't, compost him. And then kiss me. Published in Delivery (PressPress, 2004). About the Poet Sandra Thibodeaux Sandra Thibodeaux writes plays that sound like poetry and poems that perform like plays. Sandra has previously published one volume of poetry, Sonata for Solo Mother, whilst numerous national and international journals and anthologies have published her work. Sandra has performed her poetry extensively, both in Darwin, and in national and international arenas. She has been a guest poet at the Spring Poetry Festival, ACT, and the Ubud Writers and Readers Festival, Bali. Sandra's work has been broadcast on ABC Radio (Northern Territory), Radio National's Poetica and Radio National's The Deep End. Sandra has written nine plays, six of which have been staged as part of the Darwin Fringe Festival. Radio National, Darwin Theatre Company and Music NT have also produced her plays. In 2004, Sandra co-wrote a bilingual, Indonesian-Australian play with Mas Ruscitadewi (Denpasar). Living in Darwin, she speaks from a context that is, as she perceives it, markedly Indigenous and South-East Asian. Her poetry, also, articulates a feminist understanding of the world. Sandra also writes songs, and her band, Ben Her, has released its debut CD, Spartacus.    [Above] Photo of Sandra Thibodeaux by InFocus, 2002. I Next I Back I Exit I Thylazine No.10 (September, 2004)