Two Poems by Tim Jones

Restraints

Electric current through my mother’s brain. It was common in those days –
twin electrodes, a rubber gag so the patient could bite down. All manner
of troubles burned away.

Dark currents of transformation. Mum spent weeks in hospital. Sometimes
we went to visit. Mum smiled. When will you come home, Mum –
when will they let you come home?

In those days, electric fences made good neighbours. The land
did not speak unless spoken to. Water was caught behind stop banks,
confined to proper channels.

We drove to the beach, trailing behind stock trucks till they turned to the slaughter:
Mataura, Makarewa. Mum sat in the car and ate ice-cream. We dug ditches
till the cows came home.

Mustn’t complain, mustn’t grumble. She never quite recovered. Her balance
was affected. On a day of cloud and flood, I drove down to the waiting church,
the waiting crematorium.

Bite down on this. Bite down. Mother is waking, shaking free
from restraints too weak to hold her. Nurse, the tranquilliser, please.
Bite down, then smile and smile and smile.

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Bento Box, Mt Victoria

Clutching a bento box I step daintily
from the streets of the city to the topmost ridge.

Mountain bikes plunge past on either side,
heralds of erosion. Above them a lookout rich

in pou and explanations. You may expect
some puffs of wind. Bring hat or hang-glider.

Bring tectonic plates. Bring a deep awareness
of your faults. Bring the bowling unit –

fast bowlers and slow bowlers too. Bring your lunch.
There are seats, entire geographies. Each small

compartment conceals a wealth of clues.
Bite the sun to summon all its flavours.

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Tim Jones has had one novel, two short story collections and four poetry collections published. His latest book is climate fiction novella Where We Land (The Cuba Press, 2019), and his most recent poetry collection is New Sea Land (Mākaro Press, 2016). He was the guest poet in takahē 89.

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