Kai Jensen

Brief siblings

1.  A brother

A big man in a motley top

dogs me through Ikea.

First we share a slot

in the big revolving

door – Hej! – and when

I reach the men’s toilet

he’s already there

ablaze with colours

and later at the head

of the cafeteria queue

then chooses a table

three rows away,

facing mine, his big

ruddy head, with its bald

spot peeking through, bent

over a plate of meatballs.

I wonder whether he’s aware

that we’re entangled, briefly

bonded in some quantum way.

On any given day

in any public setting

there’s almost always

one such karmic sibling;

what’s the bet he snaffles

the last two-by-two gloss-

white Kallax flatpack

on the pallet in aisle 9?

But then I see him

held up in the toy section

dancing to entertain a child

like a clumsy bear.

2.  A sister

Waiting for my toastie

in the wintry air

I watch you pacing

briskly, your funky

boots and electric hair

and feel my family’s itch

to speak to strangers,

form a bond, quick

and deep as superglue

but then regret, fall out,

fight or kill by neglect

etcetera. And so

I inspect my own shoes

and later, carrying

takeaway cups to the table

find I’ve gone off you

walking erratically

in front of me, oblivious

caught up in some intensity

I might have bought into

just plain in the way.

Another bodhisattva

Someone has to watch the cabin crew

act out the safety instructions

so I do, looking past the bouffant hair

of the tall guy two rows ahead.

I’m rewarded when the nearest steward,

older, with a simple bob,

suddenly lights up – it’s show time!

Blissfully she clips and tightens the seatbelt;

releasing it is a vast freedom.

The oxygen mask dangles like exotic fruit

or a Christmas tree ornament and she’s

an ecstatic child. Roguishly

she dons the frayed lifejacket

for a fancy-dress ball, shares the joke

of its whistle with us and struts

proudly down the aisle, acknowledging

non-existent applause, turning her head to check

that we’ve taken her point: this humdrum

commuter flight goes to paradise.

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Kai Jensen was born in Philadelphia, as a child emigrated to New Zealand with his family, and is now an Australian. Kai lives and writes at Wallaga Lake on the Far South Coast of New South Wales.

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