what is 'the parks'? it is not
the area, not where we have grown for over 30 years,
not
when we took a home at 10 torrens street
playing with mice over stained floorboards


grandma feeds the dog rice like us,
grandpa and dad sit,
mum is serving fish,
she tells everyone to eat. is that not a sweet sight to see?


its cold in the mornings
but we walk to school in our rolled-up skirts
the hot bread shop opens its shutters
giving fresh bread and warmth
to us
as it always will


there is nothing to fear
not of this community
not of these people
and their words
how natural
it is to use
to hear


at dim bowling alleys
with faded signs
we press the tissue onto our skins
and watch
it crumble
with flames and butterflies on our ankles
there is a new story
but like our flaky tattoos,
it is temporary


years in the west watching the sun
set
where would that be behind concrete walls?
reflecting off the highest windows
of high-rise towers
that sit where our childhood playground did?
after it burned to its roots


white, wood,
bright green grass,
that don't pull from the ground
splitting from its ends
that would not be the south west
and not these memories
and not this home