which the priest tells us before evensong
his cope glittering like a green diamond
and the blue glow of Facebook frozen buttercup-light
under his chin.
It’s like waking up in your house
and doing watercolours and petting your cat
while firemen shout at you from the cupboards
about a gas leak
like you hear them and then the postman
chucks a Molotov cocktail through your mailbox
and your house is engulfed in flames
and your watercolours and your cat, too.
If I try to carry the weight of the world’s grief
I will buckle like a three-legged table
Risk boardgame sliding off me
and all the world leaders ending up
in a hyena dogpile.
A man hisses at me on the bus
and my partner kisses me
while the lights of Dunedin glitter
like dissected Hannukah candles.
God is a pinwheel
spitting beautiful bright spikes over the ground
while mountains melt like wax and ash
falls like snow.
Lord, now lettest thou thy servant
depart in peace
or strike down the postman
or at least
save the cat.
an Aotearoa poetry journal | ISSN 2744-3248
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