Durack

Most afternoons we sit

and drink tea. In the quiet

my grandmother asks

Am I durack? Her English, broken

and gentle.

Most afternoons my grandfather

drops his head in his hands

and shuts his eyes.

Look on her, he says

as she searches for herself

somewhere past my face.

She no know nothing. Two sick

old people, why we live? I no

good, she no good.

I turn to him.

I touch his shoulder.

The shriek of the kettle breaks

the silence.

I turn to her.

I brush the hair from her eyes.

No. Not durack.

You just get lost sometimes.

She smiles. I fill their cups.