PS Cottier

Snip

Red earth drumbeat —
crimson kangaroo.
She cuts fingers,
her claws scimitar sharp.
Her pouch is packed tight
with pointy digits,
a pencil case dripping
more red on red ground.
Snip knows what’s up,
and how to remove it.
Put down that gum-leaf.
Turn around. Run.

Or better still,
sever your own finger
(left pinkie will do).
Hold it to your lips,
as if to blow. Blow.
The sound is audible
to Snippy alone.
She will come, avid.
Good girl Snip!
Present your offering.
She’ll slip it in that
bulging, fetid pouch —
mock pregnancy of phalanges.
You are now her friend.

She’ll leave you
with the other nine fingers
which is way better than none.

I just pray
that you’re not wearing thongs.

PS Cottier

Note: ‘thongs’ refers to the footwear that many non-Australians call flip-flops.
‘Snip’ published Midnight Echo 16, ed Tim Hawken, November 2021.