Two Poems - takahē

Antipode

You went to Big River
and then you went to Mount Empty
and you went to Valladolid
and put flowers in the ground.

I waited in Newtown.
I took my time, not waiting too hard,
finished humanity’s smaller projects,
crossed off things in a red notebook.

But the apocalypse never gained momentum,
because you went to Valladolid
and put flowers in the ground.

A taxi driver said,
‘Will you go through by going around,
will you go to the other side,
will you eat lemons
and arrange flowers under the skirt
of the fragrant statue by the sea?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry.’
The next night I called a friend,
I told him about cat fur necklaces,
I told him about Valladolid
and the hole through the centre of the earth.

I told him we were safe now,
because you went to Valladolid
and put flowers in the ground.

I am at the halfway point
of a silver birch and a dying fire.
You are in Castile and León.
Between us are three flowers.

I Call You Blue

You are a blue beetle.
You clutch the night in a way that makes me think
of paradise and other beetles
that are not you.

A blue beetle
with black spots.
Not in a row—or else in many.

You are a blue beetle.
You are bigger than the second storey of this house
which I have never gone up to.

Beautiful blue boy, went home for the summer,
drank refrigerated juices, learnt about hell
from a supermarket magazine,
came back to the ranch shinier, and more afraid,

met me here on the bench
after the ceremony, heard me call you
blue, name you a beetle,
a blue beetle with black spots
growing larger than the noon.

Ruben Mita is a writer, musician and ecology postgrad student in Pōneke. He has been published in journals such as Landfall, takahē, Sweet Mammalian, Tarot, and a fine line. He loves fungi, some sounds, and trying to write poetry that plays with overlapping realities.