by Ross Jackson

How well can I imagine this real place— Oodnadatta?
work with me…

just Datta to the locals maybe
that speck on a vast tawny rag
seen from the window of a plane
or from a wedged tailed eagle’s cruising height
charred emu feathers and camel droppings
scattered on a battered dish of clay
at ground level
a mirage a kilometre away
buckled boats of galvanised iron
stranded in a khaki sea

check out it’s museum, after you arrive
specimens drawn from a Coolgardie safe
roughly worked hessian hangings
screening the tomb
of The Well Sunk Empties
get on your knees, go eye to eye with a thorny devil
(another creature difficult to swallow)

that’s my rough idea of Oodnadatta for what it’s worth
a sketch for those at home
where there’s an itch to escape
from those acres of shaven suburban grass