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.