Bleach

Robins in leafless trees sing louder as trucks
roar to loading bays beyond the wire fence.
The security guard checks my card, I pass
forklifts that tip drums of bleach on concrete.

Wearing a white mask I line up
for a day with the machines. Some fill
plastic bottles, others snap on red caps.
I stack pallets with boxes of bottles,

wrap them tight with film that catches light
like bright flakes swirling from splintered shells.
My spread toes sink into hot sand, my mind
drifts to a new place. The red and black beaks

of terns skim sea reflecting sky white
clouds across blue sky. A label jams.
That night I jolt awake as the label jams—
memories of machines ache in my head.

Bleach on my skin works like smelling salts.
Streetlights keep the robins awake all night,
their songs get louder as traffic blocks junctions.
I walk to work and the trucks are queuing.

Shining waves of plastic wrap wash over
boxes of bottles. I take the pallet truck
and carry bleach across the yard. The sun
clips satellite dishes on distant buildings.

My mind moves back to the night before—
staring through the wire fence
at a sparkling tropical sea, moonlit
vapour trails of planes and stars.

The robins keep me awake.
They never stop singing, day and night,
their silhouettes tremble against streetlights
and the setting suns of the long winter.

The Prawn Season
Oil
Kingfishers
Dehydration
The Leather Chair
Bleach
The Landlady
Long Beach