Bronze Jesus

This piece seemed kind of fitting to plonk up here as Christmas is only just gone and my thoughts recently have been rich with childhood memories of summers on Rottnest Island; of moments where life was big and the possibilities infinite, a time where in a small skin I felt big, a time when my Dad ruled the world and could tell me anything, where my parents were perfect, stories had happy endings and flawed boys were flawless ...

Bronze Jesus

You stand like Jesus. You glow like I imagine he might.

My skin is polka dotted. Though I’m hoping you won’t notice. My small limbs are painted with red mecurochrome antiseptic and I’m starting to scab, I’m wishing I wasn’t, wishing I was better at riding bikes. Standing before your deep bronze skin you don’t notice mine even though I’m glowing too.

You’re chatting to Dad about cray pots and boating weather and I wish I were big enough to come too, strong enough to yank up those pots. But I feel sorry for the crays and I’m too small to be allowed to stand that close to the edge of the boat anyway.

I’m still in the shade of the verandah and I want to tell you things but instead I stand behind Dad looking at your calf muscles. My terry-towelling jump-suit has left the red splotches very visible. My bony shoulders protrude, decorated with ribbon-tied straps. My lanky body (which is not as brown as yours), my flat chest and my oversized feet, that are bare on the concrete, make me want to hide even more.

But I still want to climb over the balcony rail. I want to stand beside you in the sun and tell you how many fish I caught the other day. Though I put them back—and I’d seem stupid saying that because you pull cray nets and that kind of thing.

If I were wearing my Karen Carpenter Jeans you might think I were more grown up. You wouldn’t see my bony knees. My skivvy would cover the blotches on my shoulders, but it’s too hot for winter clothes.

I push aside my home cut fringe—too heavy for my face and try to think of other things: the Bubble O Bill I’ll buy later from the shops with the five cent coins I saved. I’m thinking hard so I don’t keep staring at you and right now you matter a lot. But what I don’t know now is that one day you’ll grow to be leathery, that you’ll marry your pregnant girlfriend. That there’ll be a Sunday where you’ve had too many. A Sunday where you mess up the barbie, get third degree burns and then drink away the pain. Right now I’m looking at your bronze skin. Your hair that makes you look kind of like Jesus. I’m hoping you’ll notice me. But you’re still making plans that I’m not involved in.


(Published in Dot Dot Dash 2010)