Sunday, December 29, 2013

tarawera (after taupo)

both feet (blue)
of both feet:
knee soaked,
with hand-hold and
hand-picked,
being cared for, for caring's sake
and still having some
slight shake from the morning

being convinced and confident
of times since and
thereafter
and before --
"years and years" say I, in the
aftermath he holds his hand over love
... and drives us.


Saturday, December 28, 2013

the contract

You know it is going to be
         Forever.

You know.

   You decide, you
go.   When you come back, 
  everything is the same. 
  Having felt through the anxiety of
changed rhythms and 
plain speeches and 
    hurtling. Into the morning 
         with phantoms and fantasies
up around your head
(though coming thick and ordinary from mine)

-- a sign of the times, he, thirty-one, says
though she says, 
"Welcome to the '70s." 

Tuesday, December 24, 2013

test

We're on the longest, straightest stretch of road between Te Awamutu and Cambridge when he turns in the passenger seat and puts one hand over my left eye. He keeps his fingers splayed at first. Then, holding his gaze pointedly at my temple, he begins to shut out the gaps in his hand. The horizon disappears out of my left peripheral vision.

I keep very still at the wheel.

"You're testing me," I say plainly.

No reply.

"Why?"

Now he holds still for a moment. He shuffles closer towards me in the passenger seat. He wraps his right arm behind me -- just below my headrest -- the front of his shoulder stacked into the shoulder of my seat. His fingers inch in towards my head.

I take my right hand quietly off the steering wheel and place it along the upper outside of my thigh.

His fingertips keep creeping around the headrest. The middle fingertip touches the corner of my right eye, pricking an eyelash into my cornea. It waters a little.

A van bobs up over the hill at the end of the road.

The car keeps moving forward in its designated lane. I imagine, as I often do when driving, us both hovering just above the road -- sans car -- our legs at right angles in non-existent seats. His hands remain very, very still. I can hear him breathing close to my face. He is breathing calmly.

The car keeps moving forward in its designated lane.

Then: Lurch, scuffle.

My hand resting on my thigh shoots up to grab his prone wrist; at the same time, he drags his right hand over my right eye. My hand, on his wrist, over my eye.

"The other car is near us," he tells me.

"I know," I reply. My left hand is still on the steering wheel.

"Your hands are over my eyes," I tell him.

"I know," he says.

"Yes."

The left front tyre grates against the perforated shoulder of the road markings. I listen to the sound and keep exactly on top of it. It deviates occasionally and when it does, I find it again. The vibrating it causes seeps into the whole car.

We both say nothing and listen to the rumble of the tyre. We feel the car shuddering disjointedly underneath us. He is barely in his seat. My back is very close into mine.

After some moments more he takes both hands off my eyes but his body remains hovering in the space between the driver's seat and passenger. His gaze is still at my head. Mine, straight ahead.

"The van has passed us," I say.

"Yes," he replies.

He settles back into his seat and stares forward at where we are going.

Monday, December 16, 2013

Falling asleep to the sounds of trains in Arthur's Pass. 

Monday, December 9, 2013

abundance

It's not that I want everything. I want all kinds of things. Things that don't match or fit or go together. They're not found in the same place or moment or person. 

So, meandering ... 

Sunday, December 8, 2013

watercolours

Eighteen heads shifting:
up, down
(I'll make choreography 
of this, I tell them).

An embrace with the eldest
before eyes
shut,
and they all
and they all
caress me with their pencils.