MAYHEM - Issue Four
A Poem I Didn’t Think to Write
it was the shining bougainvillea on the western corner of the rooftop:
its colour, its glow,
its annual summer speech
it was the children who played across the street:
a stream of babble, pierced by the girl’s Simon, you’re not allowed!
when their ball rolled out onto the road;
and the meek one, with the golden skin,
who cried at the same time every afternoon
it was the small dog who whisked about
between the pohutukawa shade and the shallows of the sea
sniffling, snuffling, upturning strange rocks;
unable to understand why we drove all the way out there
to lie still on the sand
it was the boozy january night of his birthday party,
and pressing our left cheek against the cool, silent glass
that overlooked the harbour;
it was the scent of the breeze that filled the house each morning
after she had kissed us goodbye and descended the front steps.
yes, but what bougainvillea? what children?
whose dog? whose birthday?
after who kissed you goodbye and descended the front steps?
it was being:
getting it wrong, then getting it right