A poem by Wellington poet Jenny Bornholdt.

Finance

City bracketed by snow

woollens airborne

in the hall.

Starved, our animal selves

tore grass

from the lawn, bark

from the trees, trotted

to where our children

gnawed the bones of animals

smaller than themselves.

Was this the end

of the world? Of childhood?

This frozenness trapping us

in our adult selves.

Who knew what would

happen next. The film festival,

perhaps? A short about

my father’s handkerchiefs

making their way

in the world. One gone

to a weeping air hostess,

another to the brow of a young man

knocked from his bike. Who knew

where this would lead us.

By evening

we were done,

though the children still ravenous

for food and experience.

Snow lay like a man’s handkerchief

over the hand of a magician.

We expected the coin,

the rabbit, the dove, but nothing . . .

only more snow

and the dollar rising and falling

under cover of darkness.

The Friday Poem is edited by Ashleigh Young. Submissions for The Friday Poem are currently closed and will reopen in May 2020.