New verse by Dunedin writer Emer Lyons.
Someone is chopping wood outside my window,
or is it loudly inside my head?
The slow swish of the axe
the sharp splinter scattering little shards –
impossible to clean up.
I want to burrow beneath the soil,
lie under the heavy comfort
of the world’s body weight
in coffined deathly silence.
I have these postcards I frame,
images for tourists who know nothing of a place
to send to their families and friends
who know even less.
A turbaned courier driver asks me to shut his van door
Why me? I think, looking around –
the street is full with the kind of people
who talk to other people
when you call them on the phone.
I search my face for trustworthiness
in the hotel room mirror
I have to crouch to look into it.
I should feel reassured
when the computer tells me I am not a robot
instead I feel more mechanical than ever –
where are all the wayward children?
The chopped wood is stacked
in a neat cascading pile against the side of the house
like a cat bringing home a bird,
I can provide it says
blood congealing in its fur.
Emer Lyons, 2017
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