Loretta Riach
Egg Tempera
(after Hilma af Klint)
my gender fluid is powder blue
it drips from the sac
you’ve got a shell
–it grows on you
in here the temperature is controlled and i am always wanting to take off my shoes
commune with the cool and polished linoleum
also in here the tempera is radiating
you are visiting the island
you are walking down the little path, the one with the paving stones
each little ant kissing your toes as you tread
in my head you stand slightly shorter than I do
and the cavity that spills over
is full of gold liquid
it stains your apron
which makes you laugh– H-H-H-H-H-H-H-H-H-H-H
you know just how i like to spiral
EXTINCTION EVENT / NEW WORLD
When the next comet hit,
the mammalian instinct kicked in again
Diving for cover is second nature. We all remembered our steps perfectly.
(there is small scurrying to be done) (also) ( go now, it is time to move)
Everyone pretends that they didn’t dream about it prior. ( oh the mighty light coming in)
We all politely ignore the warning signs.
There is nothing to be done about it.
I hold your hand extra tightly when we cross the road, even so.
( you and i burrow down) (so warm and soft into each others chests)
We brace for impact, browsing the supermarket. The mist over the lettuces forms a shimmering portal.
A musing cloud of last-minute decisions hangs sweetly in the bread aisle.
(look there oh, too late now)
A small apocalypse at the self-checkout.
O, the gentlest sound:
a great primordial scuttling.
You can hear it now, the tactical retreat
humming across the city. The footsteps getting quicker, quieter,
and the occasional last minute promise being made. (yes we must do this again sometime)
The dust didn’t settle for weeks.
We emerged blinking into the enormous white morning,
covered in ash and with small mammalian hearts furiously
beating,
beating, beating.
Self Help
Instead of doing something useful,
I collect miniature ceramic horses
and soak them in perfume and give them each a name.
Instead of working on myself,
I am carving an enormous butter sculpture
and it looks just like you, and I leave it in your bedroom.
Instead of taking things a bit more seriously,
I am taking a build-your-own-ukulele class
and being the worst in it.
If self improvement was so great everyone would be doing it.
As far as I can see, people are working hard to be the worst person ever.
I want to be washed out to sea
in a devastating flood of good intentions.
I want to be martyred for my failed attempts to be the bigger person,
and become the patron saint of shrugging it off, like a silk petticoat.
I want the papers to rave about me.
I want to be a good person, and not even realise it.
I am positively dripping in moral fortitude. It stains the carpet spectacularly.
I don’t care about understatement. I am here for screaming,
and proclamations made by flash mob, set to the song Hungry Eyes by Eric Carmen.
There is a tangled web of valuable positive affirmations languishing
at the bottom of a forgotten tote bag.
Or on some nights, when the wind is up, you hear
several simple steps to a happier life...
carried in on the southerly.
Loretta Riach is twenty-one, lives in Te Whanganui-a-Tara, and is an artist and a student. They mostly write poems about rocks, some of which have appeared previously in Starling.