New verse by Wellington writer Dame Fiona Kidman.
A man walking down a road,
his shoulder muscles packaged
tight as boulders under his shirt,
a thick set handsome man, all
sinew and brawn. I knew
this man, stayed under his roof
more than once or twice. Until
then I had not seen a man
cry. Not just tears, but hulking
great sobs tearing his body apart.
Later, in the village, you would
hear the word cuckold bandied
about. A shame for a young
man, her quicker than him
and her second time round
the clock, was what they said.
What I recall most of that night
is how the passion fruit
flowers were rich on the vine,
their scent as surreal as the man
weeping and walking along
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the rough avenue with only
a child to observe his fall.
From the new collection This change in the light: A collection of poems (Godwit, 2016), available from Unity Books.
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