She is standing sentinel when I round the corner. A still figure in the early morning, dark parka pulled close. A girl-shape on the edge of the reef, cast in relief by the…

She is woken before her alarm by an overzealous thump of her heart. Sweat pools—in the divot above her sternum, in her bellybutton, in the depression between her breasts. It’s still dark.

It’s morning and I’m in bed with the covers pulled high, waiting for the weathermen. There’s no set time but they always come. I lie and listen for the sound of paper scratching up dust.

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This bloody orphan, standing at the foot of my bed. Small, pallid, yellow-haired and sour-faced. ‘I’ve stolen a garden,’ she says.
Every night this kid wakes me up. She says the same thing each time, in exactly the same way. The third night, I’m already irritated. ‘You said that yesterday,’ I tell her. ‘And the day before. Who are you anyway?’

‘Push!’ I yell even though it’s just me heaving the long claw of crowbar down into the sand and wedging up the fence from below. The mesh winces, creaks. ‘Push!’ I shout like a midwife birthing new life; here in the long hot flat with the afternoon swelling and the wires ruling long lines of fire. I press what is left of my weight into the bar, heaving as the fence clings on, its thin nails gripping at the soil.

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It’s summer and out there bare vines are crucified along trellises contouring the hills in every direction. It used to be that in spring they leafed green and fruited and we harvested about now and the vineyard rang with Latin American voices, European voices, young laughter, diesel engines and birdsong.

Translated by Omid Tofighian.   I’m sitting on the plane, looking out of the window at the boundless blue of the sky. Curses are overflowing from inside me. I am surprised at the situation, surprised at my discontentment. I reason with myself that this is possibly just because I’m heading for something new, and I tell myself that I can handle that. After a short time I see a luscious, vibrant-green island: a beautiful green dot tucked away between the waves of the ocean. I smile. Its pristineness seems to be something to behold—something unparalleled. When I disembark from the […]

Dang, sorry. This is only available to a Meanjin subscriber. But we can fix that. It’s just $100 for a print subscription, $5 for a monthly digital subscription, and $50 for an annual digital subscription. DIGITAL PRINT

Dang, sorry. This is only available to a Meanjin subscriber. But we can fix that. It’s just $100 for a print subscription, $5 for a monthly digital subscription, and $50 for an annual digital subscription. DIGITAL PRINT