Twelve poems in a self-published zine. 
Featured in Wellington Zine Fest, November 2018.

Design: Samuel Trimble

Jan 1

It wasn't as if
we knew, all we knew

was the light that gushed
in the big square window

for all we knew, it was winter
we were cold.

Upon morning in wet soles
against lungfuls of mist
in green moroccan leather
there were crêpes.

We drank Rothko red.
We ate Monet’s lillies

there was sun in my roots
and mint in my cup.

But that we were
for all we knew
we were waiting for
something to happen.

Wake up, welcome.

We open on taut lines pinned to white linen sheets.

We shook from ourselves as though dancing ahead.

We are idiots and mystics not
wives, not parents or children
ever lying in bed, wishing for time.

Clutching you to me like a stone
smooth happy
how cold I was, my nightdress
dipped in snow.

The Interview

He said, I am the Hero of my Own Life
as he drank a beer in the shower.

I watched the curtain curl against the steam.

Yellow headed giant child,
whose posture was easily distinguished,
a boy in the world’s eye
blocked my morning sun.

Beaming, I reach for the power that composes me
when walking down the aisle of a moving train.

I try again, as music rolls off the roof through the window
Who do you think you are?

Some kind of superstar?
I do not want to stand guard over my own life, I explain.

You have got to,
Standing up, he reminds me it's nearly ten
that I should be going. I should be gone.

So I say quietly,
a bashful wave upon a tiny shore,
that I have.

I’ve always had dreams with certitude
of great things turning up.

Sensitive Me, Relatable You.

We are self-centered.
We are out with friends, yet curious why.

We are emotionally expensive.
We are running late.

We are Coconut milk and ripe tomato in a low heel at the self checkout.

We are pulling hair through its tie.

We have an arrangement that was never formally arranged.
We are someone to plan Tokyo with, to share a bowl of blanched almonds.

We are mentioning things in passing.

We’re oil on canvas,
Tape on card,
Twine on board.

We are signing our names in condensation
Not picking up our phones.

We are laughing until the air arounds us bends.
We who laugh like villains.

Lying on our stomachs.
We are ambitious, only kind of.

Sunday

i'd eaten a third of the book before the cup was replaced
to find my tongue, i reviewed my position on this.
thanks.

hb23

i didn't know what to be at 23
sometimes blue eyes, sometimes green
at times you're standing next to me
eating your words like coconut praline.

if i had a million sets of arms, i could
wrap them round five hundred thousand guitars

and sit all day in sun rays, counting lines of isobars
freezing and then warm.

think of me shore's edge in cut-off jeans
holding onto something that has meaning to me
the water on my knees, cool and circulating

remember 23

24 hours ago,
you said you'd come and see
me lying forlorn upon the lawn
where i extend this sojourn
thinking ancient thoughts
supporting obscure sports teams
drinking Oolong tea.

Saluting you

(We cut fringes and conversation short
We know ourselves we tell ourselves
We are out the back on wooden decking
We build shadows from the sun).

I’ve said before he’s good for me,
shown me the open door
where before, wading alone
I’d sit in rooms
sipping tea without thought.

I mean to say, I now know,
we work together and alone

This pullovered man,
his jersey woollen and stoic
sad and sentimental
bitter and heroic.

saturday sayings

If you were a car you'd be a red 205
two feet wide, dents down each side

If you were a shoe you'd be avoiding the cracks
don't step on that, won't be losing luck or marrying rats

If you were a tree you'd have leaves bleached by sun
barely grown before providing shelter for someone

If you were a door you'd be swung open wide
full of oaky pride, letting people hide

If you were a kindle you'd be illuminated full
back-lit and still, tapped in morse code drill

If you were a jacket you'd be found in Camden Loch
cheaper than what your friends got, better owning than not

If you were a haircut you'd be the slow kind to grow out
one making people shout, causing queasy doubt

If you were a river you'd be rippling and raw
mineraled galore, not quenching, wanting more

If you were a backpack you'd be leathery and soft
forgotten in your cost, packed tight so wearer wanders lost

But if you were a tattoo you'd be temporary.

fault lines

it's saturday AM, and
i have miniscule ambitions and no plans.
standing next to you, in my imagination

 i think again of that sad, sunless little apartment on the hill
the piles of yellow legal pads strewn around my room
all of them crammed and curling at the edges.

i reconsider all advice on taking a small thing too seriously.

And yet, my mind has felt flat for months like
it’s stuck on one emotion and

being here now
a part of one of your parties
i feel little and unnecessary.

i have words for you, safe-saved for later.
i have words for everyone not in this room.

of course it’s too hot tonight.
and everyone got dressed up.
and you're in white and talk to everyone.

this is where i will begin to crack:

down my hairline
along collarbones
up inside
the middle of me.

Kindly

Take your lens of déjà vu
Off everything i say and do.

House of sunny

so close we are
coasting now, the coast so clear with flowers
& grey shines green somehow

i'll let you real near to my mind
we can read each other's thoughts & quickly tick
away remaining time

collapsing into sidewalks lined with trees of the same kind
i'd said i'd let you real close so you could see some thoughts of mine

they say don't read into it
but listen loose you'll definitely be able to hear it
that infatuated gaze the man behind the maze
of convoluted constituted games won in simple phrases

so here we go
my letting in won't be so slow
i'll let you real near
real near now real
fear now
no

stay here & we'll align
all this time will wipe away
sad feelings will be fine
stepped into strength now i
found my stride
your shadow passes into mine.