Mezzaluna. Michele Leggott

over the Mahoenuis

      cornering with you in the gorge

      the stories burgeon

      flying along the coast the parallel track

      a two-tone blast at the top of Mount Messenger

      brief dark of the tunnel

      where the clock turns over

      Coming and going the ghosts travel with you

      they overlay your rest

      it’s her voice calls your child in the pissy Ladies’

      at Te Kūiti (Teka Witi)

      his red sweater your jersey

      your kiss her Kodachrome lipstick

      (she hated the song)

      the milkshakes are daylight robbery the car plants groves

      of plumstone trees the seats go down

      at night and the shorter child sleeps on the driver’s side

      the cabbages fell of the truck they said

      at this corner the very elegant coast of the northern bight

      is Monterey your father is the best driver

      in the world

      coming or going

      how we would have driven that coast

      your watercolour eyes make it into the scrub in time

      a bird wekas off the road with inches to spare

      a miss is as good as a mile

      This time the white Peugeot

      gets there with the rain and tails Datsuns

      freighting kids home from winter term

      or music lessons

      the barley broth is in its third day

      boiled clean of its bones thick

      with orthodoxy the spoons dredge up and convey

      to mouths that have learned a rich language

      of gristle and fat

      you go out for tea and miss

      this last detail of what is utterly familiar

      will your boy thank you

      for any of this?

      did you thank them?

      or Beryl and Pat and Joyce

      who feed you both and put up with his eighteen months?

      You come back loaded with grapefruit, jam, corned beef

      a case of green wine

      and all the letters you wrote from years ago

it’s an evening warm as your unfinished conversation

      lovely to come back to

      all the shops are open but he only wants to watch the rocket ride

      phoenix crowns whirl overhead

      the fish shop has smoked kingfish wings and a hāpuku head

      sweet smoky meat

      eye delicacies and fin struts to fly on home

      and get started again

      small and affordable change of season

      brings pineapples from the Cooks into the shops

      just ahead of Gala apples

      there’s a tree in the back yard might be Gala

      loaded

      he eats off it every day as the wind freshens

      pineapple sliced behind the picture window

      a boat called Rhyme is beating up the harbour

      one on the tree one in the fridge

      he’s got it straight already

      luxuriance when the power goes off

      bodies slip around after the soap the turtle boats and teacups

      gleaming by candle-lantern

      a song about honey and money another about a hum (a hum)

      the mockingbird lullaby that never worked

      not everything clears but his names tumble past in the dark

      remembering womb and water embrace

      there’s holding on (hello) and letting go (goodbye)

      there’s getting to the beach and back

      Commando M’s with the stink cut out and toes poking through

      eloquence

      then there’s that conversation pulling on an old sweater now

      still waiting as he bangs knife against plate against bowl against cup

      an exaltation of toast

      big honey on he shrieks I want helping

      last night the Silver Slocan nearly beat down the door

      its skinny holiday glitter

      that air of early Macs Doukhobor cooking and aspens on fire

      anticipation of course

      Valhalla bacon Lemon Creek Lodge and the cheapie off the window

      in New Denver

      the map in the head with its unsuspected throughroads

      lakes he was changed on the hood of the car in front of

      just like, we say and didn’t the time fly

      the last stanza almost doesn’t make it

      leaps the rising gangplank longlegged pigheaded pleased

      to be on board

      enjoys the trip the weather the drift into the other end

      the new menu will keep

      five minutes creased already it rides in a back pocket

      reading itself for signs of

      his sleeping cheek

Garbo in a Gown

      it’s been a pretty ordinary day

      I never saw you look like that before

      what bit of brilliance gets its start standing in a fruit bowl?

      the play should peel tragedy like an orange

      she said, and squirt you in the eye

      look at me like that

      or explode tamarillos under your feet—a little bit of rubbish

      it’s not a theory it’s a story

      I got up this morning in the dark and heard the cameras

      your eyes your eyes—

      laughlines, remember?

      ran the movie mid-afternoon it left me aching

      looked at the moon high up where ice was cracking unseeable stars

      ran after you through snow for the kiss

      the one of course that blows it all apart—

      was that the deeply satisfying meaning of the white dress?

      laugh and cry and don’t sleep she said

      it went away—it never went away—it was never real—here it is now

      sailing the strait straight out of a sunshine breakfast

      persevering,