Today I have the pleasure of sharing three excellent poems by Australian poet Rose Hunter. Rose, who currently lives in Mexico, was published in the second issue of Regime Magazine with me, and I was very impressed by her work. She has been published in many magazines and journals, and has published several books, including To the River (Artistically Declined Press), A Foal Poem and [four paths] (TexturePress).
These three pieces are taken from her latest collection You As Poetry (Texture Press, 2013). Id like to thank Rose for allowing me to republish these here.
You As Teeth
Ghost dog, barrel ribs and belly
some worm, some parasite
eating her and you said, tourists
they like to get upset about it
and I nodded because we
understood: this is what’s
so great about us: we know
the brutal nature of how it goes
because every day do you understand
we walk past one corpse or another.
The rooster? He’s in a doorway
and thin as the dog. Two weeks
it took him to get from the garden chairs
to there and part pelican; crane says last
she saw him on a gurney and he’s gone since
and it was you who told me, the drunks
they take them to the river.
Amaranth and dust coated barbacoa
I watch her eat and see your teeth
gutter yellow upturned party
some shindig and no one cared
what it would be like after; we never
clean up it’s true but still, how
did they get like this? No one knows
and it’s not interesting to anyone else.
Last time I saw you carrying
a block of ice, but I leeched
those thirty seconds already, dry.
You As Tunnel
The night is drunk and walking home without you
so I have to, too. Past the tin can crack can
mold and Lemon Pledge and I’m back, dark
hallway of the villa not much by the sea where I lay
broken but in Technicolor following the script
whereby I will never mention what happened.
I am so close to you. You have done what I wanted.
I am so far from you. Look what you’ve done.
Flesh and bone we left me in that corner
next to the grocery bag under the painted window
on the green chair. I wait for you to pick me up
like a mop or dirty bed sheet, your awesome
disregard in the hot light it’s nothing
to me what’s everything, listen to you snore
(look how much you have loved me).
You As Weight
Cradling the keys for two padlocks
and how I’ll remember to zip the pocket
so they won’t drop out and how
this is the way I live, vigilant
and how, otherwise who will catch me
in my falling, and re-vigilant:
who will catch you; me?
There is no more room on this boat
and it won’t take on any more of that:
weight. We will both be in that way submerged
in that way coffin like in that way stones
in this field where we have come to watch
the large deaths of small creatures
goaded to fight and bleed discount red
and brutality, we can say, we know it
as you, from behind the parked cars
hitching your trousers, skinny as fuck
but face like Christmas morning
shaking the box, knowing what’s in it yet
not daring to hope yet, not able to
contain the iridescent surface of it
on top of all that: weight.