NADIA RHOOK
Walyalup/Fremantle / Historian
I'm living in Boorloo/Perth in self-isolation with a newborn baby. I'm from Victoria and missing Birrarangga/Melbourne.
Nadia Rhook is an historian, educator and poet currently living on Whadjuk Noongar land. She’s the author of the poetry collection ‘boots’, released with UWA Publishing 2020.
𓅔
All the world is in bed this morning.
The hummingbird parents and their two children, usually busy conducting flying lessons, have landed.
The crushed bloody fruit of the mulberry tree staining the sheets red.
Purple.
The clouds.
Descended, turning the pillows into halos of mist.
We lie in the bed with the world.
Yes, with John and Yoko too. With refusals to get up and eat muesli for breakfast again. With hi-fi milk, cinnamon and sweetened natural yoghurt. With peace.
And yes, with Marx. His torso takes up a lot of space. We refuse to admit we ever placed a value. On this mattress, these polycotton sheets, this bed, with all the world in it.
And the sky’s here.
Covering us. An oversized feather filled doona.
Warming us. Gas from a hot air balloon on a crispy winter morning.
Melbourne is here too.
In this bed with all the world in it.
She crowds around us soon as we open our lids.
Ladling smooth coffee into our throats like it’s garlic laced pumpkin soup.
Her perpendicular streets threatening to slice through our furled bodies.
And the air. It is here.
Having travelled across land and ocean.
Crossed the equator.
Without asking, or stopping at a shiny new pink plastic checkpoint.
It's catching in the back of our dry throats when we shout out, upon waking.
How are you?
Air has arrived in this bed.
This morning. And all the world.
(19/4/2020)
The hummingbird parents and their two children, usually busy conducting flying lessons, have landed.
The crushed bloody fruit of the mulberry tree staining the sheets red.
Purple.
The clouds.
Descended, turning the pillows into halos of mist.
We lie in the bed with the world.
Yes, with John and Yoko too. With refusals to get up and eat muesli for breakfast again. With hi-fi milk, cinnamon and sweetened natural yoghurt. With peace.
And yes, with Marx. His torso takes up a lot of space. We refuse to admit we ever placed a value. On this mattress, these polycotton sheets, this bed, with all the world in it.
And the sky’s here.
Covering us. An oversized feather filled doona.
Warming us. Gas from a hot air balloon on a crispy winter morning.
Melbourne is here too.
In this bed with all the world in it.
She crowds around us soon as we open our lids.
Ladling smooth coffee into our throats like it’s garlic laced pumpkin soup.
Her perpendicular streets threatening to slice through our furled bodies.
And the air. It is here.
Having travelled across land and ocean.
Crossed the equator.
Without asking, or stopping at a shiny new pink plastic checkpoint.
It's catching in the back of our dry throats when we shout out, upon waking.
How are you?
Air has arrived in this bed.
This morning. And all the world.
(19/4/2020)