Julie Chevalier is a Sydney poet and short story writer. Her work appears in Antipodes, BlueDog, Famous Reporter, Island, Meanjin, Overland, snorkel, and Southerly.
Women of Antiquity 2002 was joint runner-up for the Judith Wright Poetry Prize for New and Emerging Poets, 2008. A Cylinder for the Tree Trunk won the National Short Story Competition 2009 run by the Society of Women Writers NSW.
She teaches at NSW Writers’ Centre, South Coast Writers’ Centre and Sydney WEA.
Hot Momma Angels of Gangland
Waiting for my flight I spotted Hot Momma Angels of Gangland, Taboo Tattooed Chicks, Paparazzi Razor Murders and Sharks at the Bar so I ventured over to the bloke reading The Stoned Zone at the cash register and said, ‘Any big gold-embossed airport poems?’ ‘Poems don’t sell,’ he said. I know poets are charitable so asked, ‘Freebies?’ ‘Against company policy.’ He clamped his lips. ‘Any doorstopper short story collections then?’ He tried to sell me Music for Airports but I said I’d already been there and palmed him A pantoum for foggy circling.
against his sincere-blue poly shirt the returned serviceman carries a bouquet of daisies fresh from the petrol station … he’s come to the airport to meet his new RSVP best friend … a real looker if her photo is anything to go by … he needs more than this offering to compensate for posting a fifteen year old photo…his kid brother with the bedroom-eyes…he wonders if she’ll notice his own eyes aren’t green…his gamey knee…he was only nineteen…her email about midnight tangos … she’s flying Virgin — in your dreams — and here’s a woman crossing the tarmac carrying a bunch of flowers the yellow of her faded hair…she’s hurrying toward him as fast as she can with the sole of her orthopaedic boot built up so high
the airport curfew ends at 06:00
05:30. attic skylights, braced
against dark and rain, admit soundwaves.
commuters are driving to the cbd,
their highway drone like planes idling.
the blanketing hum turns to roar;
my stomach clenches.
double insulation lines the roof, but,
at 06:00 hours, planes abrade the 8/8 cloud cover
low hovering lights penetrate fog.
once, at a no airport noise rally
i marched with stentorian garbage trucks,
now they’re mustering bins
at the curb, as my alarm whoops it up
with some bird’s deet deet deet
and a van rumbling in the lane.
the western distributor drums
its all-weather thunder
and again i try to sleep