The tulips droop, Diana. Theywere yellow when you passedto me their slim gauze-wrappedbodies and last night they burgeonedinto burning orange, but now theylist down the neck of the vase, Diana,reaching for the floor or death.The stems have rotted, Diana, Ido not know how this happens, my friend.I pulled a bulb and it separated from itsumbilical…
‘I carried my mother as she carried me.’—John Campbell, ‘My Mother’ Not quite. Your funeral mass now over,undertakers paired off the family lifts;your three sons the main pallbearers(I with my brother, the tallest one). Each side of you we awkwardly manoeuvre—six foot and five six. Comedy’s dark gifts—even now I didn’t take my fair shares.…
Tissue paper flowers by the beddead.They have a nameI don’t know itjust call themtissue paper flowers. I bought them so I wouldn’t have tochange the dragonsnapswhen mould slithered around the stemssat bobbing in the water liketiny nordic gnomes. These were the least dead looking deadI mean driedflowers I could findbecause the petals stay pinkpurple and…
untamed dark airflowing across the night windowsrippling into the mouthof our rumbling heat-pumpthat labours to filter outthe scent of iceon hedgehog spikethe musk of windon frozen reedsthe taste of steamrising like a balletfrom the dark waterswhile we wander dreamingthe atmosphere is sweptof outliersof irregularitiesof bristling pheromonesfloating like sea minesdeleted messagestrying to reach us Chris Parsons…
Spidery crawl of deep scratchesStitching the landscape of fleshMend the planes together, smoothMoulded playdoughPrepubescent enamelRubbery skinInside peeled off fish batterWhite and swollen Raw and rubbingTight peach coloured microporeWrinkled chafing skinThe puckered red crayon scribble across your heartStings like sand sliding against sunburnDanger wobble like aJelly Tip at the beach Colourless linesWaiting for the felt tip…
So you go into a shop.I don’t know what the façade looks like and it doesn’t make a difference.You would go in even if it was dilapidated,maybe it is,most days it is. So you go into the shop,and the shelves are lined with everything,all carefully catalogued,prices clearly visible.You are the only customer. So you are…
1. sometimes i think my name was given to me, in open upturned palms, as a blank slate.who is tremendous. a beautiful and fleeting glimpse of a world so slight before it is already taken away from you.beautiful girls in muslin dresses I can’t believe I have to keep feeding this body til I die…
This corner, a cliff’sfogged cellar forged in monochrome—quarried down to the obdurate growlof waterstones— trundles overand back its basalt cannon balls, ballastfor its sunken hold. And no matter howthey grade the track, fence off the rankoverweeded gaps, it chills, like a placeyou might come to drown a mewling sack. Megan Kitching is an Ōtepoti Dunedin…
A Revelation Which before you can comprehend itResolves into a commonplace: all is vanity,Say, or suffering . . . Unhappy, the realizationThat the truth has outmanoeuvredDull you, Like a party that spilled intoThe street while you were in the kitchenRefreshing the punch, Making you surplusTo requirements, but not freeing youOf responsibility. The Bridge We had…
1. fight your imposter and repeat the mantra: you’re meant to be here, you’re allowed to be here 2. write the cards using your reobe sure to google your tohutōeven though you already know where they rest. . . or do you 3. over explainhow it wasn’t this easy last timeto recognise tuakanatheir mātaurangayour mātaurangain…