ten years old
Three poems By Brent Cantwell
until I’m rhythm in this mud,
until my knees are kicked-dirt dry
and grey, and the fence is a thud
and a ball feathers the sky,
​
until my charge of cheap thunder
is silkiness unstoppable,
there’ll be no place to stand under
where I can feel clean water fall
arachno-naut
This morning - from the cool palm
of a cabbage tree
to the bare branch of our garden’s
weeping willow -
a spider, with a plum-ripe abdomen,
makes its way
on self-shat silk
sticky with intent
defying gravity and distraction,
swimming space
in joyful Atlantic-ordeal,
imprisoned in New-World dream
of freedom,
leaf and bark
and flying sacks of nutrition,
not ever arriving
because arriving is to know
the breath
of your own weight
and what it is to fly
no-more,
to serve a life sentence
you know must eventually end.
anyway, Seville
streets’ll siesta
straight forward oranges’ll
happily collapse from umbilical noose
balconies’ll
forget their muzzles
and learn to live with iron wrought
​
in the forge of some ascension.
So why - locked-in and sad -
won’t normal life let us be?
​
hung meats don’t matter
and later everyone’ll
laughs themselves leather anyway
Brent Cantwell is a New Zealand writer from Timaru, South Canterbury, who lives with his family in the hinterland of Queensland, Australia. He teaches high school English and has been writing for pleasure for 23 years. He has recently been published in Sweet Mammalian, Turbine/ Kapohau, Cordite, Brief, Blackmail Press, Landfall, Foam: e and Takahe.