Kermit Winona
Lagamorphing
warm
your
hands
on my
chest.
Chest first I fell into the
beehive. The █ beehive in a hole
in the ground. The beehive, the beehive,
the wasps’ nest. I tend to assume the best
in others. I begged forgiveness of the wasps
who stood to gain nothing from
stinging my arms and legs. This is
not an allegory. Yet. I tend to assume
the worst in myself. Prey animals tend to
trust me because I know what it is to be small.
I’ve known a fear I pray you never do. Warm your soft
ears in my cardigan, twitchy-nosed darling. Rest still. Rest
tender. I’m resting easier these days. I live held. I live holding.
Having. Lagamorphing into the man you stayed for. Thank you for
staying. I’ll be worth it. I’ll be pears in the winter and peaches when
summer can’t help but give us another chance. The wasps are dead
with nothing to blame but the rain and no one to miss them but the hole
they left in the ground. The wasps are dead and I am two months clean.
The wasps are dead and I hope they find a peace of their understanding
in that ultimately indifferent place that comes after this. Hell’s closed for maintenance.
Heaven is the room you are in. I crawled home on Wednesday. Home, my love. Home.
egg drop soup
You are lamb, born wet and
woollen to the fresh spring.
You are right-polished boots
laced all the way up.
You are soft coat against palms,
young hooves on dewy grass,
your heart a parcel passed about.
That little white top frames your chest so nicely.
Day of sun, day of sun, day of rain
for humility’s sake.
Keep warm, little butch, keep well.
Whisk the eggs into cream and pour
them slowly to the broth.
If you had left us in the winter,
you would never have had the
chance to try your favourite soup.
Nerve Damage (And The World Kept Spinning.)
It’s ok if your hand never goes
back to normal.
It’s ok because a spider
under the house has just
finished her web. And while
that might not be so ok for
the cranefly doomed to find it
(think nightmare, think dreamcatcher)
it’s all ok because the paint dries eventually.
Those avos in your fridge will ripen — Quickly! Now! Now!
But work ain’t too rough these days.
Remember this feeling.
Perfection is fleeting,
then the milk goes off,
then the wound heals.
Kermit Winona (he/him) is a poet, visual artist and zine maker living in Poneke. His work can be found in bad apple, takahē, Symposia and NZPC's Siren. His best friend is a rabbit named Park Bench.
Please note that due to its formatting, ‘Lagamorphing’ is best viewed on a tablet or computer.