The Spaghetti Fish

▤

Every time I see one of those cacti
I imagine the sharp needles digging
into the soft, pink flesh of my ass.
A spaghetti western?
I miss my mum’s spaghetti.
It is too hot here and there is no ocean.
Salty, beading sweat erupts,
trickles down between my breasts.
They are more ample than a few years ago
I miss not wearing a bra in this heat.

I am sitting in a diner
I can’t understand the waitress serving me
She is talking too quickly,
in a language I should understand but don’t.
I just want frizzante
and she rolls her eyes.
That I understand.
My boyfriend nudges me –
“They don’t call it that here.”
He rolls his eyes at me, playfully.
It is too hot, and I am sweating.

He sees that I feel silly.
Eyes twinkling, he traces Y for Yulia
Gently across my damp back.
I giggle, glad he is here with me,
A smile sliding along my lips as I think of what
Those strong fingers might do to me later.
Our guide arrives and
I want to ask again about bears;
but he is talking too quickly,
in a language I should understand but don’t.
He smiles and looks friendly
I hope the camp site has cold beer.

by Juliette Gillies

~

This poem by Juliette Gillies is featured in our Summer Zine #10, in response to the Taungurung word "ngamiy", which means "sun". 

Follow Juliette on IG here.