Galah’s Skull

By Sarah Holland-Batt Sarah Holland-Batt
I find it in a field of feathers, pink-crested,
a knuckle of bone picked clean by the wind,
a pale mohawk mounted on stone.

I bend down. Zeroed out of its head
are two sockets, two airy planets
full with sun, and taking asylum in one

a millipede is coiled, a slick black hypnotist.
Polished, it spirals in on itself
like one of Saint Hilda’s fossil snakes

we studied in the school chapel’s stained glass.
As if the eye could dig itself into the earth
then extend a curled feeler out, like a fern.

I turn the skull round in my palm like a pebble—
it will not settle. Otherwise, all is still:
the grasses claw in, the world does not tilt.

Even the blue stand of scrub grows over;
it has nothing on its mind. But the skull
will outlast the summer, a thought cut short,

and I will pass it every day as I walk
and stop just here, where the air hones its teeth
on bone, where the mind remembers itself

only as a shell, and I will mourn what was once
a world: one eye rolled to the daylight moon,
the other pressed down into the earth.

Source: Poetry (January 2011).

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This poem originally appeared in the January 2011 issue of Poetry magazine

January 2011

Biography

Sarah Holland-Batt's first book is Aria (University of Queensland Press, 2008). This past year she was an Australia Council Literature Resident at the B.R. Whiting Studio, Rome.

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Poems by Sarah Holland-Batt

Poem Categorization

SUBJECT Living, Death, Nature, Animals

Poetic Terms Free Verse

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Originally appeared in Poetry magazine.

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