The summer I turned seven
my father went missing.
The earth opened her mouth
wider than before and
we stopped at Jimmy’s for dinner.
Dad ordered salt and pepper squid
and a side of salad.
I wanted a Bubble O’Bill
but I got a slap on the back
and cod with lemon.
The next morning the beach was open still
but my father’s factory was closed.
A paradox like the weather:
it was hot, a real hot bastard of a day,
Dad said hot as hell. But inside
our house and in Glenelg
it was cold.
In the city, one-pound notes
fell from the sky, or more truthfully
from his wallet.
In the ground was a bag of bones
gifted with fingerprints
and scraps of lemon.
And there, in the newspaper,
the Beaumont children:
Arnna, Jane, and Grant.
Bitter fruits, my father’s last words.
He was wearing a smirk
and a blue satin dress.
Four people went missing
that summer.
Kate Cantrell is an award-winning writer, editor and academic. She teaches creative writing at USQ and QUT.
