Ruben Mita
The Expedition
The moon was like a fishing net
when we set out that night from Bulls,
walking second-hand landscapes,
following the paths of the first amphibians.
There were four of us in the group,
commissioned by the Journal to Combat Violent Geology,
but I only remember our leader.
She would try to keep up morale by saying things like
‘Little pigs have big ears,’ or
‘Hold tight to the patriotic spanners of love.’
She had a little dog called Gouda who deserved main character status
(fourth on last year’s list of ‘Things Described by Firemen as “Cruel and Unusual”’.)
Still, I followed her faithfully.
That was, until the night I rummaged through her pack
and found a copy of my great-grandmother’s will and testament.
After that, we trudged on, keeping an awkward distance.
I began to imagine a fifth character, walking close behind us,
a composite of the party. He grew increasingly annoying,
saying off-the-mark things like
‘I’d rather have, like, either a heart attack or a stroke than, like, a heart attack and a stroke,’ or
‘Sometimes I love you so much it hurts.’
Or else he’d ask forbidden questions, like
‘What does the average member of Simon and Garfunkel look like?’, or
‘Are we there yet?’
And when we finally found the glacier,
one year to the day,
he stepped down onto the ice and was never seen again,
erased by that sudden crushing reality.
I can still taste that landscape. The minutes like years
flowing over the ridge. The mountain all golden.
Someone saying ‘When everything is gone forever,
everything else will be right here.’
When we got home, that famous Guy Fawkes night,
there was localised hail in the souvenir shop car park,
falling on the effigies of Mario and THE BIG FOX and other local martyrs,
and all the radio stations were playing Lucy’s Naptime Monologue on repeat.
Tomorrow the council were putting the clocks back two years.
I dragged myself home to dreams of failure without consequence,
while all night long the glacier flowed under my pillow
like a slow-motion film reel.
Intercity
The moon was a mandarin slice
behind the Prawn Park billboard.
‘Brother,’ he said to me,
‘Brother, does this bus go to Auckland?’
We drove over fossils in the tarmac
outside Taupo.
People pumped time through their teeth.
I ate from a plastic bag and watched the gut of the sky bloat pink.
When I get home, tell me all about
the movement of a sleeve around your wrist.
All Suns
All
barking suns rising on lake land. Every
clear sun rising on the singing sea. Three
dogs went down to the water. The
earth split and smoothed. All
fresh suns rising on sap land. Every
green sun rising on the ripening sea. Four
hands ran down the branch. The
ink winked and whispered. All
jangling suns rising on whisker land. Every
kissing sun rising on the sleeping sea. Six
lungs crept up from the water. The
mud sighed and slept. All
nowhere suns rising on dream land. Every
only sun rising on the only sea. Two
pears rolled down to the shore. The
quicksand sang and swallowed. All
rolling suns rising on ribbon land. Every
salt sun rising on the circling sea. Twelve
teeth went down to the garden. The
umber drank and darkened. All
vast suns rising on moon land. Every
winking sun rising on the humming sea. Twelve
xylem streams flowed up from the root. The
yolk pearled and parted. All
zenith suns rising on the long white sea.
Ruben Mita is a musician and writer living in Wellington, busy trying to connect words, sounds, fungi, plants and people.