mix & mash lterature remix

Domus  –  home, dwelling

1.

Where the bird is

at the end of time

is where shadow stands up.

When we are gone

is when the crocodile will find a way out

by way of bridges

and so will the bridges

and so to the nature of collapse

of empty stadiums

of a world without us

and the bird at the end of time

singing

long after what we have built

has fallen

from lack of care.

2.

Her self-portrait at fifteen:

a single body blooms

blue wool and blood oranges

caterpillars and washing

hands as good as open.

Nothing can be done

a mother’s abdomen

bright functioning before

the one mistake

in sun.

3.

Don’t lean away

cut it off and start over

go           and come back

to different people –

lose speech

then memory

shave parts of your skull to scalp

your old woman

moves like seaweed

soft and soft and soft

you cut years

they grew over

none know.

4.

East of the river

rises concrete majesty

rises forest-dark smoke

face of the dog tied still.

East of the river

when I dream in a shoebox flat

with chickens

disillusionment

and pumpkin vines

it’s of deep hills

with a creek pavement

cabbage trees and

wind’s escape.

East of the river

girls walk the loss

the leaves

the decades

halo of roof

and fence against sorrows

twist of bowels

palette of pitch and concrete block

pop of figs.

5.

Antarctica waves sastrugi

the crowd waves olearia

throws alleluia

to the stones,

lamentations testing

seeking the heavy body

the roughcast.

On, up

the dense blue shadow

the white of fists 

over ice and mirror

a fantastical display

of cabinet whitenesses

smooth bergs

a ceiling

a bottle

tent figures

around this domus

this house.

 6.

Getting away, stingrays

cruise the beach

red-billed gulls shriek

German trampers.

We walk slowly

cat's eye, feather, limpet  

pieces of kina, sand dollar, bone

a seahorse, shag dives down

estuary wide

wading across

feet sink

sand bars, deep pools

against rocks

against  formation

barnacles capture light

shade                    night

even the silence

isn't silent: cicadas

surf, birds, white noise

to replace the white noise

cars, radios, dogs, mowers

people

people

people.

7.

She used to ask, what’s it like up there?

We hear our horses’ hooves as they strike granite or gravel.

When a horse walks over a patch of moss, you hear nothing.

We hear each others’ dogs, but never our voices.

We hear the wind, and feel it tugging at our faces.

We may hear nothing but that wind for three days and nights.

What we hear when everything else is quiet

is the sound of mountains –

gravity that we all feel under us.

It would be stupid to say that that we belong.

We are always ants.

There are no birds

not until the day is finished.

8.

I was

the dark shadow that moved beneath

a child, alone

over concrete

not the body beneath

a rhythm on skin

behind the threads of embrace.

My mother’s breath

welcomed me to my own country

but still the wily blossoms

hands

my throat

running

and others saw me

asked:

how does it feel?

and words like skin

said:

fine, kia ora

I was

amazing.

9.

Tincture carried it

just like the flower or petals

would bleed scent

cling to doors

pummelled in

jam’s crush.

You stir, mix

full of damp nature

afternoons our

swing

with lollies

creek

and crates.

Try crawling

along a gun

along aged stomachs

until the call from home

treat and shirt

locking

against heart.

10.

Shadow stands up in this country
whose trees lie across leaves.
They barely move from
the cross where they fell
too much to gain
too much warmth to get.
When, against dawn I shoulder

the smooth blades
and hollow words that lie down –
the same eerily shadow way
in the same chamber dream,
              it’s morning
I press my ear to the voice

the bird

at the end of time.