Mezzaluna. Michele Leggott
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over the Mahoenuis
cornering with you in the gorge
the stories burgeon
flying along the coast the parallel track
a two-tone blast at the top of Mount Messenger
brief dark of the tunnel
where the clock turns over
Coming and going the ghosts travel with you
they overlay your rest
it’s her voice calls your child in the pissy Ladies’
at Te Kūiti (Teka Witi)
his red sweater your jersey
your kiss her Kodachrome lipstick
(she hated the song)
the milkshakes are daylight robbery the car plants groves
of plumstone trees the seats go down
at night and the shorter child sleeps on the driver’s side
the cabbages fell of the truck they said
at this corner the very elegant coast of the northern bight
is Monterey your father is the best driver
in the world
coming or going
how we would have driven that coast
your watercolour eyes make it into the scrub in time
a bird wekas off the road with inches to spare
a miss is as good as a mile
This time the white Peugeot
gets there with the rain and tails Datsuns
freighting kids home from winter term
or music lessons
the barley broth is in its third day
boiled clean of its bones thick
with orthodoxy the spoons dredge up and convey
to mouths that have learned a rich language
of gristle and fat
you go out for tea and miss
this last detail of what is utterly familiar
will your boy thank you
for any of this?
did you thank them?
or Beryl and Pat and Joyce
who feed you both and put up with his eighteen months?
You come back loaded with grapefruit, jam, corned beef
a case of green wine
and all the letters you wrote from years ago
it’s an evening warm as your unfinished conversation
lovely to come back to
all the shops are open but he only wants to watch the rocket ride
phoenix crowns whirl overhead
the fish shop has smoked kingfish wings and a hāpuku head
sweet smoky meat
eye delicacies and fin struts to fly on home
and get started again
small and affordable change of season
brings pineapples from the Cooks into the shops
just ahead of Gala apples
there’s a tree in the back yard might be Gala
loaded
he eats off it every day as the wind freshens
pineapple sliced behind the picture window
a boat called Rhyme is beating up the harbour
one on the tree one in the fridge
he’s got it straight already
luxuriance when the power goes off
bodies slip around after the soap the turtle boats and teacups
gleaming by candle-lantern
a song about honey and money another about a hum (a hum)
the mockingbird lullaby that never worked
not everything clears but his names tumble past in the dark
remembering womb and water embrace
there’s holding on (hello) and letting go (goodbye)
there’s getting to the beach and back
Commando M’s with the stink cut out and toes poking through
eloquence
then there’s that conversation pulling on an old sweater now
still waiting as he bangs knife against plate against bowl against cup
an exaltation of toast
big honey on he shrieks I want helping
last night the Silver Slocan nearly beat down the door
its skinny holiday glitter
that air of early Macs Doukhobor cooking and aspens on fire
anticipation of course
Valhalla bacon Lemon Creek Lodge and the cheapie off the window
in New Denver
the map in the head with its unsuspected throughroads
lakes he was changed on the hood of the car in front of
just like, we say and didn’t the time fly
the last stanza almost doesn’t make it
leaps the rising gangplank longlegged pigheaded pleased
to be on board
enjoys the trip the weather the drift into the other end
the new menu will keep
five minutes creased already it rides in a back pocket
reading itself for signs of
his sleeping cheek
Garbo in a Gown
it’s been a pretty ordinary day
I never saw you look like that before
what bit of brilliance gets its start standing in a fruit bowl?
the play should peel tragedy like an orange
she said, and squirt you in the eye
look at me like that
or explode tamarillos under your feet—a little bit of rubbish
it’s not a theory it’s a story
I got up this morning in the dark and heard the cameras
your eyes your eyes—
laughlines, remember?
ran the movie mid-afternoon it left me aching
looked at the moon high up where ice was cracking unseeable stars
ran after you through snow for the kiss
the one of course that blows it all apart—
was that the deeply satisfying meaning of the white dress?
laugh and cry and don’t sleep she said
it went away—it never went away—it was never real—here it is now
sailing the strait straight out of a sunshine breakfast
persevering,