Poem — Louise White

Rituals

 

Sprung from the trunk of a treefern,
a backbone curves against the sky.

It was the same then, early morning
under manuka, the slab secured

between branches, a smoke-house
dangling on rope. The knife paused

in my father’s hand, muscling
his arm, and the trout swimming

in light. How we love certainty
and uncertainty, but most of all

we love hope – shouldering in,
waiting for the small red fat heart

to be flicked out on the tip
of a black-handled bloodied knife.

 

Louise White

Tagged with: , ,
Posted in Poem
Search
Subscribe to NZ Books
We're pleased you're using the New Zealand Books archive.

To ensure the survival of this important journal, please consider
subscribing — only $44 a year, or $30 for digital-only.

Go to the Subscribe page.
Search by category

Read more