Photograph by Tori Lill
Photograph by Tori Lill

I am those blow up dolls

that stand by car yards

with giant arms noodling into the sky

the road is loaded with surfboards and bikes

kids press windows with cheeks


I see this with eyes that don’t blink, I blast

a perfect polyester smile but I have no lips, I’m made

from the same materials as hot air balloons

repurposed for this sale


I am those shifts in the air that set in

on some highway between Bunnings

and a 7–Eleven when the air–con slips

a few degrees—just enough to make the skin bristle

in the night my extremities wilt, I hunch

over a reduced Holden


That’s how I slipped into this car, staring

at your profile in the dark, a stray

occy strap flaps from the roof racks

I begin to define a shape

I let the wind hit my face

I’ll drive home alone