The Chickens
It was never my idea
to get the chickens
I almost blacked out
in St Mark’s square in Venice
when the pigeons flocked low
and brushed my face
you laughed and laughed
and I almost decided not to marry you then
but when you saw the fear was true
you led me off to eat squid-ink pasta
and drink light- filled
glasses of Prosecco in that sinking city
But once your idea of chickens took hold
a good wife, I ran with it
I found a home-made henhouse
and arranged the trailer to carry it to our backyard
On the rescue-chicken site
I was seduced by two scrappy featherless birds
I drove to Bunnings
and talked supplies with the nice man
while the toddler busted around the store
and I hauled white chicken wire home
scattered organic chicken food –
with the toddler on my hip
trying to dive into the chicken shit –
because I felt sorry for those damn birds
I endured the leaf-blowing nosey neighbour
telling me he wanted chickens as a child
but only got ducks
After their first day I said
You need to clip those chicken’s wings
You said Those chickens have never seen natural light
they won’t know how to fly
and when they flew out of their flimsy cage
into the unfenced yard
Mr Leaf Blower laughing, saying Don’t be silly, girlie
heart knocking I got closer than I dared
to shunt those birds back inside their pen
because the toddler was watching
and I inherited this fear
from my own mother
A week after you told me you were leaving
we came home to empty space
where the henhouse once sat
only the white chicken wire suspended
around nothing, Chick-chick? the toddler said
my ache of loss for the birds was a surprise
Mr Leaf Blower went past
Did you eat them?
I looked him in the eye Yes
I never asked you where the chickens went
You never said
They culled those pigeons in St Mark’s square
murdered every last one
Piha Beach, two years on
Our feet punch bruises in the black sand
and I am back in the burn of childhood summers
the circle of sentinel gulls
their grey wings tipped to catch the light
warn me back
but I go down to the white foam edge
bluebottles boated with their pretty poison
yield to the sharp edge of my stick
I go down to the place
where the wind kicks holes through my heart
and there is a child down there
too close to the ribbony horizon line
holding his blue kite
towards the updraft
still smiling as it lurches
against the wide white blaze of sky –
and I smile and laugh and I take my daughter’s hand
and together we run with him
because how can I tell them
all the brutal things are yet to come
Burst
The girls burst from the car
bare feet fly
feather-light
over the tussock
shoes kicked off
they dive into the black sand
squealing
charging towards Lion Rock
Clara determined to climb it
Indie behind her, wind whisking
my protests of danger away –
no rails, jagged rocks –
so I follow, running now
behind them up the crumbly path
finally hearing me
they turn
a whip-whipped tangle of hair
their unruined faces caught with light
and I can’t help but love them
my brave fierce daughter
and fearless step-daughter –
a child once afraid of the wind –
I want to yell Come back, turn around
but they’re looking at me
like they still believe in my bravery
Wait for me I say instead
Wait for me
and they will, this time
+
From the top we survey our domain
the sand, the sea, those hills –
for an instant each soft blade
of tussock is picked out in brilliant sunshine
the world sharpened by tiny shadows
The poems are from We are tiny beneath the light, The Cuba Press, published with permission from the publisher.
