BRENT KININMONT The Crop Duster’s Daughter My head was too large for words, and I needed (he could see) corrective lenses. He papered my crib with awkward bodies flying faster than they sound – the Moth was one, Jumbo another. When rain on the kennels fell on my sleep he scrolled with me around my walls, listened to the din planes made when I named them. From below my window I could not grasp the clouds his pastures drank, the hard stuff that grounded him. Before the Quake In that rift in the chapel between Adam and the outstretched finger of his maker, I saw cotton shirts, a week’s worth hanging from the line next door, and our neighbour on a ladder cleaning spouting with a trowel and a hose. From up there he could not see his child, her palms grubby from gunk piling up on the lawn. She was standing under all those sleeves, high-fiving his cuffs. ABOUT THE AUTHOR Originally from Christchurch, Brent Kininmont has lived in Tokyo for more than a decade. Return to 2011 contents >