REBECCA NASH
Raised Nubs
to a patch of road-marked tarmac
we watch balcony rungs
make shadows
more gaping than geometric
you firm your thumbs
through my belt loops
tug absently
for only forty minutes ago
we were fucking
partly magnetised
mostly bored
though in the meat of it all
we thought in unison
again
again
again
*
the sky is packing in
I can see clouded dullness
on your back
can feel it on mine
road shadows blur
further into road
and under it
we are pressed
together slowly
we roll and smoke
roll and smoke
*
at dawn
I walk to work
along marked lines
my hands force dough warm
tuck seams under
leave each bun
trembling roundly
as its neighbour
rising
white
elastic
buttons
and ginger-wine
black clove specks
thin flashes of lemon
soak currants
for tucking into pastry
buns and eccles
gloss under oven heat
smooth bread tops
split open
milk and sugar glazes
crackle on pastry
hot currant juice runs
and stains
my hands shake
as I sit on the toilet
feeling at my rawness
the last bit of your heat
all morning
I have been giving
and now my body is cold
*
we will take to the balcony rungs
take it all down
because three-dimensionality
has become unnerving
better to be flat like tarmac
to project our bodies
onto blank walls
today I lose a finger
tomorrow I will lose an eye
in atomistic squall
I can see you standing
in uncut grass
mouth cracked open
into a sharp-toothed smile
and then your lips disappear
you are climbing ladder spindles
you are climbing
until there is no ladder
you rise in fuzz
in soundlessness
and I roll and smoke
but it comes out in clouds
from my chest middle
I breathe in fuzz
in soundlessness
we will run our fingers
over the flatness
look for a raised nub
of screw on wood
look for some small trickle
of the third dimension
Pete
instead of yolks only
an amateur mistake
as such mayonnaise would require
a vat of oil to thicken
into stiff spreadability
the furious whisking seemed eternal
crook of arm muscles aching
and a brow that would have been all-a-sweat
if the kitchen were not so bloody cold
you said he’s gone to hospital
something’s wrong with his head
and because you were sleeping together
on the sly you needed me
because only I knew why
you were so particularly upset
I said it’s fine he’s in the right place
by which I meant what has he taken
and with what has he taken it
and has he taken too much
so I went back to whisking
as physical exercise is good
in the face of could-be-bad news
you said he’s in a coma
that he’s not coming out of
fuck
what
and I dropped the mayonnaise on the floor
and I drove you to the hospital
to half the town and two bottles of whiskey
the most sober party I have ever been to
at two in the morning we ate chips
from the vending machine
and though I was fresh from quitting med school
I didn’t know what to do in a hospital
I forgot not to cross my fingers
that it happened when he was having sex
and not with you
shockingly dead at thirty-eight
we filed in to hold his hand
there was nothing to be said but
fuck
what
and also very quietly
I love you
and squeezing his heart he was so gone
his lips already waxy and closed
at four in the morning we filed out
with a hangover worse than we
had ever tasted
because only under warm water
is the mind safe and quiet
and he was sitting in the bathroom
in his faded black as before
freshly lint-rolled
to clear the cat fur
with his eyes half closed
I wrote hello sailor to him on the glass
I knew he shouldn’t be perving
but he was a dead man so I smiled
settle in and on the fourth day
they take to roaming
either way the cheeky fuck
came to look at me in the shower
and dissolved again into steam
Listen to Rebecca Nash read ‘Pete‘
Pipi
two cold inches deep
our hands are wintered
our gumboots have small holes
we work with slow ache for
one
single
bucketful
but there is not breath enough
to keep our four hands warm
I brave chills
because you have seven years
on me
and you were there
the first time
I held pipi
dig your fingers into sand
strike hard shell
wash a little as you bring them up
dig the small ones back in
your mother once told me the story
of your birth
being dragged under
while you were cut out
by obstetricians
though she kicked
and she cried
your mother has never
trusted men or doctors since
but somehow loves
one scruffy
intact tom cat
who has fathered
a whole neighbourhood
never sticks about
to watch the babies come
smoothly in parcels
never stays to watch
mother nibble away
each pearly membrane
her rough tongue
draw open each first breath
her tired belly rise and fall
the milk in pools
about kitten mouths
when we get home
we take the back door
shut it rough
while winter air reels
and sighs through house cracks
we put the pipi in the bathtub
and you fuck me
while I worry about whether
my whimpers are inspiring
either way it’s warmer than before
either way your skin is smooth
and I am a pock-marked curve beside you
we take the pipi
out of the chilling bath
help them into a hot one
with a slice of butter
stop their quiet filtering
through sea breaths
pluck congealed thumb tips
from shells
your mother is guilty
of taking the small ones
turning them slow
in warm tap water
running her thumb
over their shined lips
to touch the hard groove
the living tightness
your mother is guilty
of killing quick in wine
sucking
brine deep
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
This year Rebecca Nash lived in Paekakariki and did her MA at the IIML and made a baby. What she will do next year is anybody’s guess. Though she will probably write more poems.