The rainbow is a distraction from a mismanaged system: boat people imprisoned on boats; animal skins scorched in parched scrub. Red rats leap from sinking ships beneath a livid orange orb. Yellow yells in the blistering car park, green twigs bending to the point of snap. Blue notes bend to an indigo mood, as violet bruises spread beyond the confines of individual faces. Sexuality, gender identity, doctors and nurses, children’s playgrounds: rainbows upon rainbows, anywhere but in the sky. Supermarket shelves sag with the weight of hot air, as hard-working families oil rusty pliers to extract their own teeth. If we had the resources, we would all bleed together. The Minister proclaims doves for all, though all we’ve seen have been crows bearing burning branches. Walls run slick with tears and mould. We could use some colour in here, but even our words are bleached to their roots, and border after border is nailed shut.
Oz Hardwick
Picture Nick Victor
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