The Memory Game

Poem by Magan Magan

My brother has come home to say goodbye

to my mother. He walks into the living room,

takes his jacket off and sits on the couch

facing the dining table where I am standing.

We are polite in our exchange.

It is as though we are strangers whose souls

have fought sometime before this.

He tries to fill this space between us like any

other stranger would.


He asks about my schooling, when I plan

to finish and if I work. I tell him school is good,

that I plan to finish soon and that I do work.

My face is a blank page. I can feel the heat of his



He promises my mother he will come with us to the

airport but changes his mind before the taxi driver

arrives. This is what we do. When we try to love one

another, our faces glitter with rage,

our souls boil and we bury that hurt.


We become polite strangers.


One day we will all forget how we look

and walk straight past each other unaware

we have failed at keeping the history of our

hands and feet and blood amongst us.


Magan studies Creative Writing at VU Footscray Park.


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