Poetry

Waipukurau

Jennifer Compton

It’s knocking at the door in my mind.
“See how the serpent dies on distant hills.”
That can only be the lazy coils evacuated
by the dare-devil crop dusting planes.

They looped and vanished before they landed.
This was where I lay among the straw—gumboots akimbo—
as the plump rat leaned up to sip from the water bucket
while the tease pony watched him complaisantly.

And the chaff cutting machine worked in fits and starts.
As the stallions raged in their stalls—fed high on oats—
they dragged me by the rope on their iron bit willy nilly to
the mating barn—and back again. Foaling followed.

The local ice cream was excellent.
That boy that I tormented—cold as—
when he wept something stirred in me.
Was it pity? No, I don’t know what it was.