Three poems about my son, who has autism

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Brisbane, late 1960s

FictionYOUR MOTHER DOESN’T like the school holidays. She has to run the shop as well as keep an eye on you. Your brother and...

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FictionAs a teenager, during the day, with my mates, we’d talk about their stats – career goals, disposals, who was the most accurate goal kicker, who was the fastest player, who could lay the hardest tackles. And at night, I’d stare up at those posters from my bed, the moonlight making the footy players’ strong arms glisten. Bare, bulging biceps. Broad, powerful pectorals almost bursting through their yellow and blue guernseys. I wanted them, and I wanted to be them, all at the same time.

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