Raspberries didn’t always come in plastic punnets. Pinkish pixel
villages, bleeding at the slightest pressure. Raspberries blast my
tastebuds. Red juice runs along blemished fingers into a ravenous
mouth, a flash and snare of tangled canes in the valley.
Half adult, half teen, saving for escape to Sydney. Thorny stems
terrorised tender fingers picking at high speed over Monbulk red soil.
Raspberries were the shape of me, aggregated and hollow inside.
Sweet Dreams of that big harbour city.
Standing at the Manly wharf pay phones, in a shroud of cigarette
smoke and salt, pleas for me to return to Melbourne were met with
stunned-fish silence. HSC results ringing in my ears, flashes of sweat,
wall of black in my skull, blank exam papers. The wound stains me
still.
First love’s taste of ending, death, wildfires, Mum and Dad filing for
divorce. Empty, all my words stolen. Water slapped red-gum pylons;
deep blue waves carried my ferry to Circular Quay. Displaced, I
boarded the fast train to Taree, a ballast of secrets inside me.
Drank Bundy OP in the pub, staggered to the Manning River, muddy
currents spun and swirled, their destination a mystery. I searched for
a way to tell my childhood friend I’m queer. Taree’s humid air a thick
scent of frangipani, berry-pink blooms covered the streets to her
share house.
Outside the record store a Eurythmics poster, Annie’s bright lips. At
the greengrocer in shallow wooden trays – raspberries and me with
no money left to pay.