MITCH MARKS
CAMPING ON THE FAULTLINE
We have moved to a house from which
I can see two harbours
And if my enemy approaches I will fire
A warning shot across her mothered bows
I am in limbo until the barricades go up
Until the landlord, someone’s father—
A man whose words I wish were fewer—
Fixes the front door’s broken lock
So I am bunkered on the hill
Fortified by the port and portholes
And the wines and winding paths
Zig-zagging down the line of sight
We have moved to a house and if it falls
Again the fault is all mine
UNWELCOME PASSENGER
Four of us in the car on the sunniest day of the year
Three visual artists and me
All in-between and mistresses of our own destinies
With the freedom to go to the beach on a weekday
On the front passenger side is the older one, the Crone
The first we’d known to go through menopause
Leaving the party to take her ice packs to bed
Her skin drying up at the same time as the grant money
Her younger lover has left her for a younger lover
And is living his best life on Instagram Reels
The Crone says, “here we all are—unmothered—happily”
The words echo around my evacuated womb
Until the driver, the most famous of us
Changes the subject to the growth she’s been carrying in hers
She’d shared a photo of it, excised, in the group chat, prefaced by a content warning:
<you wanna see it? It’s gross>
Of course I wanted to see it
It was gross
Now it’s gone she won’t get her period anymore
And the doctor will prescribe her as much Valium as she wants
In the back seat with me is the Beauty
Whose darkness comes from within
But she defines herself as without
She’s silent on the subject
She’s had a stepson and was glad to see the back of both his parents
When she finally saved enough money to leave
“Do you wanna see a misandrist meme?” from the front seat
A resounding no from the back
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Mitch Marks (Ngāti Raukawa, Pākehā) is an editor, writer and small press publisher who has just completed her Master of Arts in Creative Writing at the IIML.