You can see the Southern Cross from my place in Coburg, and through the smudgy tram window. You can see it on the calf of the woman jogging past the café, and on the nylon flag attached to my neighbours ute. You can see it from my mum and dads old place in the country. There's wattle in the front yard and a couple of gums out the back, and you can see big dry paddocks stretching out towards old blue mountains that drink the sunset.
You can see plenty of dead roos on the drive between my place and theirs.
You can see a bunch of flowers rotting on a sun-bleached marker by the roadside. And another one. And another one. There’s a bounty of beauty and waste and simple silence.
At night, when the day is dead and the stars show up, all spit polished and distant for the funeral, if you tilt your head you can make shapes.
A cross - five floating freckles.
You can scratch them on your arm, or stick them on your bumper, or piss them into the sand. You can do whatever you like, but you can’t own them, they’re stars. You might have been born beneath them, but so what?