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
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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