Sarah Barnett is a museum professional who lives and works in Wellington, New Zealand. She finds inspiration for her work in the audio and visual jumble that typifies New Zealand life. Her work has recently been published in The Christchurch Press, Catalyst and Takahe.
finding my father
my grandfather, a butcher
smoked himself to death
in this house
when he died
you sat on our brown
corduroy couch and
held your face together
you tell me
not to expect much.
Ravensbourne has
streets I fear to drive,
we ask a man for
directions, his grandson
twists at the hip.
I remember the basement
where
I pick your face
from a photograph,
grey and uniform
where
the wire washing line
spreads its arms
to embrace
a backyard
lush with silence;
my heart feels ashamed
to beat
slipping into palmerston
there is a slow melt
each day rains absentminded
of the last
when I slid my car
nearly coming to terms
with a fence
stippled hills
painted green with
sheep chipped into
the side
and the coppers pull over
just to be sure
just to be sure
my tongue numb
I snatch my feet from the
ground
eyeing the grass
twisted in my tracks
cuba mall
red is the colour
that makes a bull charge
red is the man
foot taps,
raps the yellow lines
rocking onto the balls
of my feet
the traffic
a dynamic movement
exclusive adults shop
the triple X
the king kebab
a midnight espresso
plugs a sink
filling at my back
hey mate
how's the day?
can't stop
the clock studded girl belted,
leans black
against a park bench
a patch of
urban eczema
all heads twitch
antelopes watching
a lotus growl past
too old she says
he says
they say with
silent headphones
to each individual
beat
racing faces,
sunglasses and skeletons
hands pocketed with
hooked thumbs through denim
a loop or swing to
a jazz chord from
the upstairs window,
or is that
hip hop discord?
playing hop scotch
I throw the jack
a red, yellow and green disc
red is the colour we bleed
yellow is the colour we age
and green means go
winter
winter came today
bringing
cold slick drops on
rust bricks;
the wind has blown
all the houses down
from the trees overhead
the kereru recites
aa eh ee or oo
in the morning
the mist rolls in
from the river
the crown,
a sweetened coming
each taillight a
red eye that winks
through grilles
on the bridge
the sky is soaked with
feathers that fall,
to cloak the ground,
and I wonder
what bird did god kill for this night?
the kereru calls
tino rangatiratanga
easter in auckland
monday is bitter
waking, curled in a strangers bed
we shower in the rain,
eat crushed banana for
breakfast
the motorway
rolls with my stomach,
the moon has come out for the sun
you say
a gesture
I show you the littered harbour
sails, like cocktail umbrellas
play the harmonica
across the bay the city
lies down at my command
a dog
sterile
salt air rushes
over my shoulder
I take a pinch
honeymoon
we walk to lovers leap
brushing the tussock
with our
hands
it swallows down
to a chopped
ocean,
gaping wide in horror
or surprise
both aural and vaginal in
warning
the sky clouds over
and the train
is bursting
pinstripes
occupied in bubbles of personal
space
swaying down the aisle
a man slumps
his grip
thick with absorption
he chews his lip;
he can’t wait to see
how it ends
chinese water torture
he has gone
the bed sheets lie flat
on his side
a slow quietness
leaks
to fill the next
room
between my palms
wet,
beneath my nails
he has gone
I put my fingers
in my mouth
and
suck hard
