and psittacus funerous.
Psittacus for parrot.
Funerous for their sombre plumage,
as if they're dressed for a funeral.
John Gould called them
Funeral Cockatoos
like the name Oma used.
Some Aboriginal people
call them Wylah.
Wy-la, Wy-la, Wyyy-laaaa,
the words floated through
my mind,
and I pictured
those beautiful birds
floating darkly
in the sky, crying
their mournful cry.
VISITING
On a bright winter’s day
I found my way to
Jeffrey’s house.
The sky was Wedgwood blue
and the clouds like
white figures on a china bowl.
The sun threw long shadows
on the road, from
naked street trees.
The yellow heads of soursobs
bobbed and swayed
in the gentle breeze.
At Jeffrey’s door, I knocked,
and a grey-haired woman
answered, tipped her head to one side.
Yes? May I help you?
Her words were rounded,
clear and resonant.
Is Jeffrey home? I croaked
like a cockatoo.
There was a slight hesitation
before she opened the door,
showed me to the lounge,
asked me to please, sit.
The room was full of china figurines—
horses and dogs and deer and
ladies in beautiful dresses.
Ornately framed paintings
of English landscapes
hung on every wall.
Jeffrey stood stiffly in the doorway
like a dark ornament,
dressed neatly
in pressed shorts
and long socks, as if
about to go to church.
I asked him to come for a walk
to see the corellas,
but he shook his head, said:
I see them every day.
They fly round and round,
calling, screeching, crying.
A DANCE
I watched a documentary
about Aboriginal people.
The painted men danced, morphed
into kangaroos and emus.
The music—clapping sticks
and didgeridoos—
vibrated and resonated.
I saw a boy like Jeffrey—
a slow smile,
white, white teeth,
dark skin and hair,
gentle eyes.
The narrator explained
Aboriginal culture
in the rounded vowels
of the Queen.
That night, I dreamed
I was running, hiding from the drone
of a didgeridoo
as an old man
pointed a sharpened bone
and a flock of corellas
swirled in the sky
calling Jeffrey’s name.
FATHER
Father took me to work
when Aunt Hilda
had a doctor’s appointment.
His office was lined
with books, piles of papers
and filing cabinets.
He swivelled in his chair
and read with raised eyebrows,
while I drew pictures
sitting on the other side of his desk.
When a student knocked
softly on his door
I left them to talk, and I walked
the long campus corridors,
imagined I was a mouse or a rat
escaping the lab,
tunnelling my way out.
I went into the high-ceilinged library
with its ornate pillars and
rows and rows of reading tables
and shelves of hard-backed books.
Its coolness,
its hushed tones,
were like a church,
where everyone whispered
as they do at a funeral.
LUNCH WITH FATHER
We walked to the museum
to the Egyptian room,
where I stood in the gloom—
the half light—
and stared at the head
the feet, the hands.
They had not moved.
Nothing had changed.
Even the tingle that stirred
in the pit of my stomach
was the same.
I remembered the names
of the bones
Mr Morris had uttered:
Talus, calcaneus,
metatarsals, phalanges,
hallux.
I stared
with a longing
I did not understand.
Then Father
touched my shoulder,
led me
to another display.
DEATH POINTERS
As we threaded our way out
of the museum
I glimpsed photos
of dark-skinned people.
Not in white socks
or polished shoes.
Women and children
scantily dressed,
hair long and free.
Men with spears and shields,
wearing feathers and white paint.
Like the people
in the documentary.
In a glass case were two
long sharp bones labelled
‘death pointers’.
The yellow bones were joined
by a twisted band of hair
glued with plant resin.
I was careful not to
line myself up with the point
of the bones, but
Father did not seem to mind.
I tugged at his arm and said,
Father, please move. The bones,
the death pointers,
are pointing at you!
He studied the bones for some time
and said, Do not worry, Lottie,
I’ll be fine. It is only superstition,
like Oma’s cockatoos.
TAXIDERMY I
On the way to the exit
I saw dead animals,
large and small—
climbing, crawling,
standing, rearing.
Father! Look!
They are perfect—
perfectly dead.
Not shrinking?
Not disintegrating?
There was no pungent smell,
just the soft wheaty scent of pelt.
They are preserved.
They have been stuffed
by a taxidermist.
Taxidermist?
I tried this new word,
rolled it around in my mind
and my mouth.
Father’s voice shifted
into lecture mode
as he steered me back
to the campus:
Taxidermy is the art
of skinning and preserving,
then stuffing and mounting
the skins of animals…
TAXIDERMY DREAMS
All afternoon I tried
to recreate
the taxidermy animals.
While Father wrote,
I drew the beautiful,
dead creatures
from memory,
and longed to return
to study them again.
That night in bed,
in the haze between
wakefulness and sleep,
I revived them all.
Imagined them coming to life
with the magic of taxidermy,
which didn’t just preserve—
but brought them back
from the dead.
MOTHER'S ROOM
II
Annie and I crept into
Mother’s room.
It had been closed,
and the air was chilled
and so still that I felt as if
we had entered a tomb.
I opened the wardrobe,
ran my hands along
her jackets and skirts,
coats and cardigans,
dresses and shirts.
I rubbed the woollen coat
I had seen in the photographs
along my cheek.
I inhaled Mother’s smell—
a floral perfume
like the one on her dresser.
I powdered my nose,
rouged my cheeks,
painted my lips dark red.
When I twirled
in the long woollen coat,
Annie gasped—You are Mother!
I stared at the reflection
in the mirror,
tried to decipher
what the dusty image
was trying to tell me
about myself,
about my mother.
I looked into the eyes
that were hers,
that were mine,
but could not see
what was behind.
FOX I
We opened a drawer,
unleashing the scent of lavender
uncovering silky lingerie,
sheer stockings,
pointy satin bras.
Another drawer
contained gloves and scarves
and something animal
wrapped in tissue paper.
A skinned fox.
I lifted it out of its resting place,
stroked its reddish fur,
its little snout, its stiff ears.
Its mouth was clamped on its tail.
Its eyes were closed.
I put the sleeping stole—
the beautiful fox—over my head.
It tickled my neck,
hugged my shoulders, and
warmed my heart.
DEATH AT THE FUNERAL
We arrived darkly,
dressed in many layers.
I clutched the bundle
hiding under my coat.
Oma wept and moaned,
waddled and groaned.
Like a black cockatoo
in her cloak.
Aunt Hilda hovered over Oma,
clutching her bird-thin shoulders,
nodding and muttering,
dabbing a hanky at her red eyes.
Annie and I stood at the door
of St Mark’s, where my eyes traced
the spire high into the sky, until
I was hustled inside—
into the chilly air,
where we slow-stepped
towards the open casket
at the front of the church.
Aunt Hilda grabbed my arm
sat me down on a pew
in the front row. Muttered, Death
is not for children.
I pulled Mother’s stole
from beneath my coat
placed it around my neck,
then rejoined the queue
at the coffin.
Annie and I stared down
into the strange face
of death—
the face
of Uncle Bernard,
Father’s twin.
We held hands
and stared and stared
at the dead body,
at the familiar face,
until Aunt Hilda roughly
bustled me back to my seat.
Her reddened eyes widened
at the sight of the sleeping
fox around my neck.
UNCLE BERNARD
All through the service
I thought of the face
of Uncle Bernard.
It was stone still
like the mummies,
but it was my uncle.
It was my uncle
but it wasn’t. It looked
like him, but it didn’t.
I knew he was dead,
but I did not feel it.
I hovered over
my feelings. And they
hovered over me.
It was hard to feel sad.
It was hard to feel
anything, except confusion.
I didn’t understand.
I liked my uncle and
knew I would miss him,
but this was not real.
The man in the coffin
did not resemble my uncle.
The essence of him
had gone. His spirit had gone,
and in his place
a prostrate lifeless statue lay.
CLINGING
When you are a child,
when you are small,
you are almost invisible.
I do not think you understand.
It is not healthy.
Wolfgang, it is not normal.
Annie and I sat next to Oma,
who clung to
a procession of mourners.
Annie’s hair shone
like a bright sun, like a star
amid the dark clothes.
The fox, the stole!
She is stealing through rooms—
that room.
Aunt Hilda was holding a plate
of sandwiches,
hissing into Father’s ear.
Father scratched his beard
with his thumb and glanced at me.
Leave it with me, Hilda.
It is time to let go, Wolfgang.
Clear it all out. Why hold on?
Let it go. Let her go.
I stroked the furry hide
hugging my neck and
wondered what they meant.
MOTHER MEMORY I
There is the frantic scurrying.
The calling, the yelling.
The white skin whiter.
Lottie, Charlotte.
Come. Come now. Come. Now!
My arm being stretched,
as I try to keep up.
My legs not managing,
falling, stumbling.
Being picked up, roughly
swung onto a hip.
Crashing against bone.
Clinging to Mother’s neck,
her dark hair knitted
between my fingers.
And then tumbling, both of us.
Heavily onto the soft earth.
The smell of grass.
The smell of cow manure.
The grey dam.
The grey, grey dam.
A shout echoing,
reverberating.
Stay! Sit! Stay there!
Fierce eyes, dark circles, faded lips.
The sound of splashing water.
SPRING
The days warmed and brightened,
but Father’s mood darkened.
He stood at the window and
stared out at the garden,
his hands in his pockets,
his mouth clamped shut.
His papers and books were left
unopened, his dinner untouched.
Eat, Wolfgang. You need to eat.
Aunt Hilda hovered, clutching her apron.
I am sad, too. Her voice softened
and faltered, sounded
unlike Aunt Hilda,
more like Oma.
She dabbed at a tear
that trickled down her cheek.
We all miss our dear Bernard.
We miss him very much, but…
Her brow knitted together.
You have to think of Lottie.
Her hands opened in despair,
but Father did not respond.
Later that night she said:
It is hard for him, Lottie.
They were very close.
It is like that for twins.
He has lost y
et another
part of himself.
WANDERING
The next day, Annie and I wandered
the streets in search of specimens,
leaving Father to stare at his window.
The sky was full of cottony clods
and, in the distance,
a small, black cloud loomed.
We passed cherry and
almond blossoms, and acacias
heavy with yellow wattle.
A bottlebrush was loaded
with crimson flowers
and two rainbow lorikeets
hooked upside down
like colourful chrysalises
stripping the tree.
We skipped along the road,
happy to be outdoors where
Annie’s hair sparkled and glittered.
At the edge of the suburbs
where the paddocks began to spread
there were no corellas.
They’ve gone, Annie said.
I thought they would stay forever
and ever. But they too have left.
We followed a dirt track,
our ears listening to the birdsong,
hoping for a raucous corella call.
FLIGHTLESS BIRDS
Look! Annie pointed
at a small bird on the ground—
a baby magpie, lying on its back.
I inspected the bald head
twisted to one side
the long slender beak and bulbous eyes.
It was ugly and beautiful.
We looked up into the tree
and there was the nest.
We climbed up and up, until
a rush of air, a flap of wing and something
sharp struck my head.
I slipped down the trunk,
clung with one arm to a branch.
Lost my grip and dropped.
Then Annie yelped and tumbled
like a flightless bird,
landing on the ground with a thump.
We dusted ourselves off,
bagged our perfect baby
and limped home.
BRUISES
There were bruises
from the fall
on my shins and knees,
and scratches
from the rough bark.
Father did not notice
my limp or the cuts
surrounded by blue
or the shadows
under my eyes.
The baby bird slept soundlessly
in a shoebox—
a too-big coffin—
on a bed of woolly cotton.
I examined its flesh,
the patchy down of feathers—
black, white and grey—
the tiny under-formed wings,
the long sinewy neck,
the way its beak remained ajar,
the downward turn of mouth
radiating sadness.
The Art of Taxidermy Page 3