At Cottesloe Beach, 2015
Dadda! Dadda! a toddler screams
Dadda! Dadda! Dadda! Dadda! Dadda! Dadda!
Dadda is chiselled, hard-bodied, striding up the beach
in rash top, mid-thigh shorts, expensive, tight
Under his right arm like a rugby ball
he carts a little girl
held horizontal, facing the ground
wriggling and kicking against his grip
screaming what she thinks is his name
By the shower he dumps her
She lands on her feet with a visible thud
He pulls her dress off over her head
yanks down her pink suit
with its frill around the hips
Having gotten her naked
he turns on the cold shower
shoves her under
She flinches, clings to his legs
He brushes water over her
with flat swipes of his palm
All this time she is screaming
All this time he says nothing
and his face does not move
A group of tourists stare
Even some of the locals look
He turns off the water
pulls a white and brown striped towel
off his shoulder
At last he will wrap and embrace her
I tell myself
He wrestles the towel around her
twists it into a knot
hoists her under his arm again
marches down the beach
Her wet things dangle from his left hand
All this time she is screaming
All this time he says nothing
and his face does not move
All this time I watch