I wanna put you in space
really huge like ‘God’
and then go live with you when I die like ‘Heaven’
and no one else can come live with you when you are God
it’s only allowed to be you and me up in space
when we are dead
you will be God and I will be God too
and no one else is invited to heaven
we can stare at each other
you’ll sit on Neptune
and I’ll sit on Jupiter
we’ll be giants playing God
we’ll be dead
We drive up to Pukeko on her back on Poplar Ave
with her legs batting the air which is nothing
like the ground and frantic wing-swooshing is fruitless.
Desperate Pukeko doesn’t want to die, me neither Pukeko.
Pukeko’s boyfriend is panicking
at the grass-edge, they are yelling
to one another, oh no, oh no! Something
terrible has happened! Oh, oh, oh!
Dad stops the car and is getting out.
Elise and I watch Dad walk over to Pukeko thrashing
in the road and Pukeko is so unhappy and very
unready to die and Pukeko is mad can’t even think—
Dad puts his big calm hand on Pukeko’s tummy.
Pukeko stops thrashing, oh, I think Dad can probably
feel her heart go, a bit slower, a bit slower.
Dad carries Pukeko to the grass-edge, stroking
her feathers with his big sad hand, holds her
carefully like a baby, never looks away.
He puts her on the grass next to her boyfriend
who is going, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no,
stepping towards her body on his big deliberate legs
sort of saying, no, no, no, no, where are you going, can I
come too, Pukeko is saying, sorry, baby, sorry, no.
Dad is walking back to the car now, really slow.
Poem About Both of Us
You have these little nubs of bone
on the tops of your shoulders they always
make me think you are in danger the way
they announce their vulnerability
but you go around anyway you go outside
and I think you are so brave.
There is a piece of your body that
appears when you are sleeping it
is between your spine and shoulder blade
it is a patch of skin that gives a bit
so I can put the side of my face in it
and that’s one of the softest parts of you.
On one side of your face the hairs grow
in a spiral pattern and I always get
especially amazed by their quiet announcement
that says what a piece of nature you are.
The end of your thumb is blunt and
your nail ends before your thumb does
and that is different to what mine
does and I think it’s important
to notice the small ways in which
we may distinguish ourselves
from one another.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Freya Sadgrove writes poems about Callum, her family, her sadness, and her discomfort with gods. She completed an MA in Creative Writing at the IIML in 2014.