Yes, some of these are rewrites. I am lacking in original bones today.
Road Trip
For Jim
A tide of red harakeke flowers
swelled over the swamp.
I said goodbye
as the country rolled beneath us
In the BP station at midnight
I pushed my money through the slot
Two cans of V and a map
of the North Island
Our fingers
touched over Hauraki
Finding the words
The river is the same shade of brown
as the photograph she nails by the front door
I arrange the vases by the window
huge tombs for the frail bodies of insects.
I am learning the names, the dates
beginning to flesh out the photographs
Heather goes over the lines again
with a soft pencil
she hears
the familiar calls of birds.
What if?
What if
it isn’t about the money?
What if I like it?
If I crave the
desperation, skin
on skin, warmth
to cling
in this darkness
the other girls like
to sit on top
I prefer the weight
of another body
pinning me
to this earth.
What if I
like it?
(and anyway
I need the money)
Ōtānerito
I
At night my window
leaves a small puddle of light.
Goosebumps are instantaneous
as my feet crunch over the grass
the kitchen smells spicy and sweet
black boy peaches and woodsmoke
warmth leaks
from small cracks in the walls
the stars drip down on me.
II
Away from the sound
of water
turning summer
salts
Roots burrow
under my feet
and leaves
whisper to each other
from opposite sides
of the valley.