Pa

By Heidi Allen

A poem about horses, growing up in the Australian bush, and my pa.

Connection to country is essential. Each individual bears a responsibility as caretaker. Since moving here in December, I have witnessed the same colonial patterns playing out in Canada that we have come to know in Australia, and that we allow ourselves to be blinded to throughout the world as communities are displaced daily to make room for so-called "development". We need to take accountability by checking our constant subconscious contribution to a system that privileges expansion over ecosystems, and prioritises profit over people. We need to recognise and learn from indigenous knowledge systems that support living with the land rather than against it. It is time to protest the active and expanding policies ensuring the historic and contemporary erasure of the world's longest standing continuous cultures.

Usually I like to read my poems in my own voice, especially this one with its call that brings catharsis, but I think it's still a good story. I hope you enjoy.

I must remember
That I have my father's eyes
And his skin
They are sensitive to this sun
And struggle to focus on the roof of the church
But my soul is from my mother's side
I know where there are wheelbarrows hidden
In the alley, behind the brush
There is a lump of cat sleeping on a pillow on the porch
The man upstairs lets out his two dogs and they bark me off
A lion on a pedestal
Deux flacs d'eau reflètent la lumière
I ask a woman with white hair and a purple jacket if she needs help with her groceries
She doesn't, but she is grateful
People notice me now
But not in the bad way
The burnt end of my blunt smells like horse sweat
Did you know that
I love the smell of horses after they've been running in the paddock
Wrap my arms about their neck and bury my head to their shoulder
And breathe exertion
And for a moment we are one
I have just been running in the fields
Wind in my mane
With my brothers and sisters
And my coat is thick and lush
burning chestnut in the sun
It glistens
Dark patch of swollen belly
Ribs taught through skin
Head bent
Nostrils flared
Built to sprint
I have watched them run beside my pa's ute
As I rode on the back
He swerves under branches to make us duck
Until mum tells him off because Bronte has started crying
She got hit in the face
Poor kid, it's rough in the bush
And I'm secretly grateful
My knuckles are scratched from gripping the rungs behind the cabin
Only pussies sit in there
Not really
My pa isn't a pussy
He knows no fear
Or he used to
He drives with reckless abandon
The window screen is cracked and filthy
But the worst part of the back is the obstacles
Tools and chainsaws and hunks of metal and wood my pa has thrown in
That slide around and threaten to cut the back of your legs off if you're not vigilant
Not really
The chainsaws weren't on at least
But I feared as a child that they would magically start
And I would be minced from behind as we went down a hill
and often a couple dogs with wide eyes sliding around helplessly
It's okay, they loved it just as much as we did
Maybe the worst part was the spiders though
that would land on the roof of the ute from branches above
as we crashed through the bush inventing new routes
They were probably terrified
But they would start running in your direction
Blown by the wind
Thick and black or white or red or brown on chipped white paint
An angry soldier on its march
I would try to flick them off with sticks when I had the chance
But usually I needed two hands to grip the railing
So instead I would simply hope that she would veer towards my sisters or mum over me
And bronte would probably start screaming
But it was the best
Especially when we went to get the horses
And move them to a new area
We would follow their tracks
Follow my pa
He knew where they were
Or he could find out
And out we would set
Us girls up top, gripping the rails ready to go
And my pa and dad or mum or an auntie or uncle in the passenger seat
Or up top with us, but usually sat at the back
Unless one of us needed protection
Like little Bronte
In which case they would stand behind you
And put their arms on either side of you
Grip the rails on the outside of your arms
And I think those were the moments where I felt the closest I ever had to my parents
And then we would hit the road
In the figurative sense, of course
Concrete is foreign
And after a few hours find the horses
After traipsing through the bush collecting scrapes and scratches on our little arms
But we didn't care
Someone would probably get bitten by an ant
That someone would probably cry
That someone would probably be me
Or god forbid little Bronte
Always watch for Bullants
Prepare yourself for the consequences of wearing open toed shoes
Which my pa usually does
Unless he is blacksmithing
But even then I don't recall if he wore his sandals or not
He certainly didn't wear protection
His skin is tough bark
And covered in brown spots
Invincible
If a bullant bit Pa, he'd probably barely notice
But the bullants don't bite pa
They know 'im
They know his footsteps
As the horses do
And they love him; god they love him
As he loves them
He cries every time he has to put them down
And that's a big deal for Pa
Stone man that he is
There are horse skulls strewn about the property
With bullet holes between the eyes
Left where they are, for dingoes and wild dogs to pick at
For blowflies to clean
A sacred spot that is then left as is
And the skull remains
Clean and polished white by the sun
And she too is deteriorating
She will crumble to sand eventually
And until then when we happen to be passing nearby
We will visit that spot
And my pa will say
"that's rusty"
And we will stop and remember rusty
And then we will keep bush bashing until we find the living beasts
In a lush green clearing by a dam
Or in thick brush beneath trees
We call to them and we follow their tracks until we find them
We call
"CMON"
But not like c'mon
It is deafening if done correctly
It echoes through the bush
And the horses hear it when we are close
"CMAAAAAAAAAN"
It comes from the throat
The diaphragm
We call them and they come
Or we come to them
And once we have greeted them all
Or those that prefer to be touched
Which is not all
I would not approach shadow
He is beautiful and wise, but he does not like children
He is right not to
We are skittish and unpredictable
We are still learning
But Pedro loves us
Maybe too much
He will knick here and there
And Pa will tell them off
And they will listen
And then we will hop back in the Ute
And start driving
This time fast
We know the way home
We have found the horses and we are bringing them with us
We sit in the back and it is our job to call them and keep track of the herd while my pa speeds on
We call "CMAAAAAAN" from the back of the Ute
My favourite part is when we reach the long stretch of driveway that allows my pa to test the speedometer
the horses learn they can sprint
And they run behind
Or aside, if there is space
They run behind with wind in their hair
And there is wind in mine
And when there are no branches above I can look behind
And see them following us
Coming home with us
And nana will be there and it will smell warm inside
The great woodstove in the kitchen is roaring
We use it as our toaster in the morning
Bread slotted into a wire contraption made by my pa
Which we hold to the flame until it is toasted
And then we switch sides
I prefer this to the toaster
The bread tastes warmer somehow
And I am warmed by the flames also
Delicious on frosty mornings
Tho summer is hot
But they got air conditioning in the living room a few years back
They put a wall in to contain it
And that is where my nana sits
It used to be with her Doctor Phil
And nana has her soft chair, always
She is so soft
She is lovely
And she always smells the same
Her sweet perfume
And she has made dinner
Maybe even macaroni cheese
Or silverside
I love my nana
And she greets us home
the dogs start barking as we come through the final gate
I know where every fence is
Did you know that
I know where the fences are
I didn't even know that I knew that
Everywhere is familiar
I am home everywhere there
It is all home
It is all home