Each night
each night I lie in bed, spurred and splintered,
to tape your breath, kiss the guinea pig
that died in my keep, hair flick, to
flick you alive
each night I marry
a replica of god’s first limb
and break his fingers
one by one
each night I dote on a
history of bacteria
and a
bonfire of lungs
now that it’s over I think
that everything was right
sending one eve after another
to dam the days
and bloat like gentle bodies
in a duck pond
desired but unkept
civil but without title
time and useless words flood the orange grove
we could not sell so
stave the price of your high season
through my bad mouth
jesus sits up, raises a paw
it’s just enough
if I once thought that love memorized the years
then I grew time like an apple
and still do –
smiling at trees
on account of their age
I record it if I can –
in a spray of words,
I try to acknowledge what it is
I’ve always wanted
I will keep recording it,
when i am able
you won’t be there,
but you would’ve liked the scene
and me in it
Danielle Todd is a poet and short story writer from New Zealand. Her work has appeared in titles such as A Fine Line (NZ Poetry Society), Oscen, Join the Dots, and Little Stone Journal. She is currently working on her first poetry collection from France.