Three Poems


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