In the Evening

The sea is orange.

A dark shape is moving in the kitchen.

Not just any shape but me, this kitchen, and you.

We greet the dust-mites in the rug.

The kale plants are producing all winter.

Little fragments shine out between our teeth.

There is a pile of washing to sleep under.

Small smiles are between us.

Agree agree.

A heart blinks, daringly obvious, in the corner.

Agree agree.

Agree agree.

A soft moth wants to sing its pink little heart out.

It doesn’t.

We agree through gritted teeth.

The fire burns over there.

We don’t agree.

Stop making generalisations, I tell you.

Be specific.

My nose hairs concentrate.

I am holding onto sand with my fingernails.

There is a molar in the floorboards where I stand to boil the jug.

We save ourselves by letting our voices go deep.

I tell you I am embarrassed by you, please stop reading about tarot in public.

You tell me it’s OK, I’m allowed to be embarrassed.

We lick each other.

Our spines are intact.

The sun comes up.

Rata Gordon

Rata Gordon lives on Waiheke Island and coordinates a youth arts and well-being programme. Her poems have found homes in journals including Sport, Landfall, JAAM, Deep South, 4th Floor, and Poetry NZ. She likes to listen to Steve Reich while she writes.