Adequate Food, by Judi Sutherland

I am not a silent poet

In the heatwave summer that the Jetstream brings
the women lay down on the supermarket floor
pressed their foreheads on the tiles and silently asked;
What in the name of every sacred thing
we care about – what are we doing
this for?

They lay quite still because their hearts were troubled,
considering, seriously, in the World Foods aisle
while all good things were slipping from their grasp
how to shore up against the rubble
fill up pantries and storecupboards,
stockpile.

What is the flavour of sovereignty?
Is it hard and brassy like a falling pound?
Will we squander everything we built to last
to get our country back? Be sure the powers that be
don’t give a monkey’s about you and me.
Lie down.

Lie down among the debris of your squandered lives
among the ashes of suburban dreams
among the spilled coffee and the broken glass
It’s always…

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