A new poem by Wellington poet Jenny Bornholdt.

Duck Three Ways

Let’s put our mother’s
favourite cat socks on
and move to Canada.

*

Let’s eat duck
three ways. The first
the way my flatmate hit one
in his car. After bundling the body
into the boot, he
drove home, traumatised,
to tell us. Opened
the boot
and out it flew.

*

Then the way we left one
in a basket on the side of the road
at a French market, with le pain,
la salade . . . oh merde

*

The third I’ve forgotten
unless it was the one the wolf girl
gobbled up, along with all the words
for loss.

*

Let’s go to pieces.
Let’s not.

*

Let’s stop shouting
at the stupid intersection.

*

Let’s not worry
about not having a barbecue
since you set the green wheelie bin
on fire with hot ashes
and our new neighbour
had to put the flames out
with his hose.
You vowed to never again
barbecue anything
and that’s okay because
if we leave the back door open
our stove is almost outdoors.

*

Let’s go to the big leaves
of Auckland, to the lemon trees
in the gardens of the houses
people like us
can’t afford to live in
anymore.

*

Let’s thank
the lemon trees for their
verdancy.

*

Let’s ring our chemical sisters.
Let’s go outside
and bark at the over-the-road dog.

*

Let’s pick up more
of Parrot Dog’s Four
Dead Canaries
and carry them
through Moon Gate
to your father
who is 92
and thirsty.

From Lost and Somewhere Else by Jenny Bornholdt (Victoria University Press, 2019)