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
either/or
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
mareikura
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 staceyteague.tumblr.com.