an Aotearoa poetry journal | ISSN 2744-3248

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Tarot #01

Auckland, Good Friday

The weekend before the fall a scorcher
heralds a clear out. Old clothes belonging
the children, mine and his, provide torture:

a Solomon’s case earmarked for Paying
it Forward North Shore Facebook Group descends
into the garage. Behind the dining

table, a corner by the window end
I call my office, it’s messy. Poets,
feminists, novelists, historians,

stacked like lovers, are compatible yet
compete: Keats’ “Hyperion” in three parts,
though fragmented, makes the appetite whet

for Dante; The White Goddess rubs the heart
of Marilyn Monroe between the slip
cover and hardback of Women in Dark

Times; and Shakespeare and Austen get at it
like Catullus and Clodia, fuckers
in a mansion of one apartment fit

to burst into flames, where every other
woman is named Beatrice. Most small things will
fit in a box, be forgotten. Bother

this red plastic lighter, found on the sill,
pocked and pimpled with barnacles, rust; lives
crusted where raw metal should have its fill

as it rolls over ancient flint and bites
like an eel. Useful. This still occupies.