Mullet

Manx and I sit under the swamp oak

on the west bank of Coraki Lake.

A howler blows from the south

clearing the lake of gulls and egrets,

spiking sand into our ankles.

Manx picks up a tree branch

and snaps it over his knee.

He draws an outline in the sand.

‘I’m a mullet in the lake,’ he says.

I can’t help but laugh because

Manx’s haircut is a mullet:

scraggy on top,

long and lank at the back.

‘I’m cruising in the shallows,

hungry for lunch.’

Manx glares across the water,

before continuing,

‘I’m stuck in a geriatric unit for fish

when I should be tackling the ocean.’

‘There’s sharks in the deep,’ I say.

Manx draws a school of fins in the sand.

‘I swim in crazy circles

desperate for an escape.

My eyes pop,

my mouth gulps,

but I end up butting my stupid head

against the sand wall,

wondering who stole the outlet.’

He hurls the stick into the lake.

‘You’re stuck here forever, Manx.’

Manx sinks to his knees.

‘Then I’ll flop onto the sand –

a mullet suicide.’

He rolls onto his back and

stares at the clouds.

‘You might meet another mullet,’ I say.

‘A cute female

lonely and lost, missing her school.’

Manx laughs.

‘Yeah, Coraki Lake needs

another twenty baby mullet,’ he says.

‘Think of it as a community service,’ I say,

‘for the pensioners with nothing to do but fish.

You can feed them your children.’

A car horn blasts on Lake Road.

Manx jumps up.

‘Fish and chips for dinner!

You want some, Jonah?’

Manx’s dad must have closed the servo early

and bought takeaway.

I shake my head.

Mum and Dad

shouldn’t be left alone for too long

or they’ll shout the house down.

Manx scampers up the embankment.

His dad leans out the window and says,

‘Always plenty of food at our place, mate.’

The Holden blows smoke down the road

as it follows the curve of the lake

to their house near the swamp.