ANNA JACKSON

 

Imogen

 
Innocence built her open 
inside, 
 
anger, 
a glorious spray, 
 
hunger, 
a shore that love rode in to. 
 
We were all watching 
Imogen. 
 
Even you had to admit 
he was good for her, 
 
the calm coming to seem 
like home. 

Claire

 
This was when she used to fall asleep 
on her portable typewriter 
 
and wake up with the keys 
impressed on her cheeks – 
 
warty, we would guess, or wordy, 
trying to make out the code – 
 
actually, tired. 
In the middle of the night she tried 
 
to type out a dream – 
my pillow a sheet of paper – 
 
you might make more sense we suggested 
if you could sleep a little straighter. 

Hortense

 
The top of her hair still dry 
and her mouth half in half out of the water – 
 
you are growing taller, I announce, 
towelling my daughter. 
 
I wonder if she remembers 
pastel storm clouds overhead 
 
and someone shouting, 
someone reaching out. 

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Anna Jackson lives in Island Bay and lectures in the English programme at Victoria University. She has published four collections of poetry with Auckland University Press, most recently The Gas Leak (2006).

 

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