Twelve tuna,
caught by a storm,
split from the harbour
and arrive
in the Watson’s bay swimming pool.
A set of twins
enter with knives.
They bleed and butcher
as mute instructions pass between them.
(One looks at the fish in the night
and thinks, ‘God’s country’,
the other takes a photo to prove it.)
Life’s next,
as they crop then render
the particular order of events,
make lists of attendances,
debts unpaid.
On scales they put street fights,
car accidents, pissed hook ups,
the question of who spewed in the bath
and how it was exactly
that a cuckoo came to land
in the Moreton bay fig
outside their house.
They rarely think of shadows,
but even dark matter might unravel
if they shone a light.
Two in orbit,
they endlessly recall and fracture stories
until legends disappear
through the holes of missing parts.
The world is solved
as they empty out the universe
of unnecessary stuff.
Until all that is left and sure
is an end
tied neat like a surgeon’s knot.