Three Poems / by Stacey Teague

my little windmill

"two souls clasped there on the bed   
with their mortal boundaries

visible around them like lines on a map.   
I saw the lines harden" - anne carson


there is all this poetry

in the pulse of your neck

you write out your grief

like writing out lines in detention

you are ambition-less

as unimportant as weather

you write like a

flightless bird near extinction

dreamy and desperate

you write like there are spears at your back

you feel the lines of your body begin to disappear

what can tear us from our outline

we are almost always deranged with feeling

you cling to those ancient parts of yourself

those immovable thorns

how can we ever know ourselves

you once said, spinning around in a swivel chair

it's like someone pierced a hole in the idea of you

sucking all of the air out

here, the narrative goes slack

the body gives way, the lines harden

you count your losses like 5 cent pieces

fling them into the sea

at every new moment we are changed forever







it's the weight of a takeaway coffee cup 

when you thought there was a little more

or like sea water stuck in your ears

like a flower with the petals picked out

like putting your shoes on to leave

or whispering words into the roof lit up by phone light

the small sad things we keep

or the bigger ones that stay

they are like the tide ebbed to reveal deep pools

threatening obsidian clouds 

and what comes afterwards

yours is a suit of armour filled with holes

or it's like holding you in the rough ocean, like a baby in that weightless sea

like walking to your house late on a saturday night

the pulsing of music from different houses, the clearness of mind

like a dog licking your knees

movement of a body of water

like sitting on your front steps

like a cold apple

it's like empty beer bottles in your backyard

or a myna bird fluffing up its feathers

not every thing that i like is good

not every thing good is true







it opens as the heavenly body

comes gradually into view

the little dog watches from the shore

they sit at the kitchen table

reading out their horoscopes

aries: let your lover know how much you care

by giving them a beautiful gift

and watch out for bank fraud

pan out to reveal a road overgrown by trees

where you will kiss their river mouth

it is like a doorway

love can be sneezed out of you

you only want the abstract

the flesh or the content

different kinds of bravery

you are real, actual, actually, really

the main part of anything

their name under your breath

a body of men rushes towards you

each calling you baby

you break them like the foaming

crest of a wave

in the final scene 

there’s a house with an earth floor

facebook open in the background

featuring the world's atrocities

the passive ending






Stacey Teague is a NZ writer living in Sydney, Australia. She has a poetry collection called Takahe (Scrambler Books, 2014), and can be found online at