Fiona Wright

For Jane

To her, they never slithered –
                  rather a rustling, the stiff
texture of their mystery
still dark and truffled
         on her tongue. They hung,

mummified limbs twisting
         from the smokehouse ceiling,
their mean eyes bulbous in surprise
                  as the walnut skin
contracted from their sockets.

She kept the wood fire burning,
         felt the hiss and cracked static
                 across her face, her own flesh
         growing heavy on its flavour.

Test Cricket crackled
        by the dam, she’d watch her uncle sit
suspended like his fishing lines
between the brackish water
          and old newspapers: the hours of waiting
for the thin rustle
of their harvest.