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Claire Thompson

Angular Dystrophy

Did your eyes see mistletoe
when his footsteps found you
on that late-blooded evening
puzzling out dark objects from afar?
Did you shuffle your straining gaze
to see that same mélange different:
pheasant-ridden mezzanines
with sewing machines
and outstretched pukeko legs
frozen on cotton flower satin?
I try to gob together
the death of someone
I never knew.
But I’ve heard it.
I’ve heard the way that people
tell the angles.
The way she refused to drive
on Dominion Road
as though she knew
her arteries wouldn’t
last till Christmas.
Only, I won’t try
to figure you out.
Snatches of your story pass
through the eye of a needle:
I have no face for your name.

Claire Thompson lives and studies in Christchurch. She keeps a copy of Nietzsche's Beyond Good and Evil in her refrigerator.