Brooke Forbes

I saw a camp dog eat what could only be described as sacrificial bones, 

The other day, 

When wandering into a Town Camp,

Uninvited officially but on official business. 

To avoid marking time,

We did not take photographs,

Of the camp dogs lined up under a car wreck,

Lapping up the shade in lazy silence. 

Our presence must be marked in a form of attempted absence, 

In a wanting not to disrupt, disapprove or dismember a moment not ours to share. 

In the arrival unannounced,

It is not lost on me how this may feel,

The occupants tired of monitoring,

Tired of white-washed offerings and implied meaning generated from viewing car wrecks and camp dogs. 

I think about sacrificial bones,

As we leave,

And wonder,

What misplaced meaning is now implanted on such intricate sights. 

I’m reminded,

In contrast,

Of warm invitations and times invited in,

Of celebrations of connection,

Of skin names kindly offered,

Of cracking roo-tail bones in square-chunks,

Charcoaled and ready to devour. 

Here was a time of warmth and joy,

No surveillance, no moments of unwanted observations.

We carried children on our backs, running in dizzying circles and given directions towards abandoned castles,

Bush medicine found and laughter rolling through blue-lit skies. 

I remember the cracking noise of roo-tail bone,

That heightened moment, 

The symbolism of shared nourishment,

That was offered,

So kindly,

On Country not ours to own.