The sun sinks a little deeper here.


As you trace the outline of a sculpted elephant's tusk,
'Dusk has settled itself in his lungs' he tells you.
Amidst promises that this will all one day be yours.
This brass empire, drawers of gold-paint,
closets of concrete riches.
You can't tell if he says this out of depths of generosity
or the skimmed rocks of fading hope.

He chokes on his moment of broken character.
He did not intend to let you in.
An inquisitive visitor was not what he envisioned inviting
but the lightning is bleak here
and he misheard the thunder in your bellows as anything 
but fear.

Life has made him weary.
He is certain these four walls will bury him.
He will admit to you,
death doesn't hold his hand so tightly anymore.
He is trusted to walk this alone.
You will want to tell him he doesn't have to.
Don't.

Respect in these last breaths
that he is brethren to men of a religion
built on a bible of kept secrets // hidden emotions.
He will not break face
due merely to broken body.
Don't tell him anything you ever wanted.
Ask him questions.

Let him tell you about his once life
as a 'new Australian'
When he was fresh-faced and naive enough 
to believe that serving this country in the National Army
was pledging his allegiance to promises of a better tomorrow
but today, the old-world kids threw him in a river
of shallow water to remind him how shallow his 'Australian' blood runs,
broke his back, so no one ever again saw his Maltese last name
as just another British subject
asked him 'Who are you to be in our army.

Turn away, as a tear slips through his cracked skin.
Distract yourself with christmas lights,
they pool in jars at his bedside
and he watches them shine,
illuminating the photograph found above his bed.
Father and child, sepia toned sunlight
seeping through laugh lines
'Don't they look happy?' he'll ask you.
We were once so happy.

There are boxes upon boxes here
Fresh cereal to combat the stale air,
and to remind you he was once a man 
who collected more than just silent sons,
scattered families, granddaughters with passport hearts.

He says goodbye
like the final boarding call of a plane you will not be there to catch.
You are laden with too much excess baggage,
they will not let your demons through the security gate.

Hours later, you'll sit
passenger seat, father at wheel,
stoic and silent as always.
You'll make subtle jokes and smile into flickering headlights,
speak mundane truths as if they are heavy handed
with oncoming traffic.
In a moment of brutal honesty,
Tell him
you are afraid you are only capable
of loving that which you must leave.
He will leave.

You will hear the news
while walking through Berlin,
standing atop the first mountain you have ever climbed,
running hands along the tusks of Indian elephants.
Forget to breathe.
Do not react with a concrete heart.
Nor an ivory smile.
Grief is the same in any language.
Speak it. Scream it.
Cry for what will feel like the first time in generations.
Be the new Australian.
Pay homage to emotions your elders had no strength for.

You are made of so much more than brass.