SH1B, 20 minutes north of Cambridge
Three poems By Ruby Porter
Out the window winter’s hardness is just beginning to show
the branches of the poplars seems to curl inwards
for warmth
I put on the heater but you say you can’t stand it
you are always too hot and I am always too cold
what did you mean by that?
you meant of course the way I
curl inwards
pull over
stop the car
by now you have counted three dead sheep
I wish you wouldn’t point it out but I don’t say anything
the snow is crunchy-dirty
only white from a distance
I sit on the bonnet
for warmth
while you crouch behind a poplar
there are fences everywhere but no houses
when you introduced me you called me Claire’s friend
what did you mean by that?
you meant of course there’s no use
in counting
the inside of the car is blurring now too
we keep searching but we only find static
I try to turn on the heater again
but you open the window you say
we need to stop breathing the same air
over and over again
pull over
stop the car
what did you mean by that?
you meant we’re moving too fast
but it all looks the same to me
the numbers that go down are just for show
when we left that night you only held my hand
when we got to the car
I was going to ask where you went but you say
I am too interested in the degrees
between us the space to cool off
and I should try to be more out going
over the limit
I want to put my hand on your knee
but I don’t know how to spread myself wide enough and
you say
don’t bother
this bend in the road is that conversation
your words are tarmac
what did you mean by that?
you meant of course the sign a few Ks back
we must have missed it already.
Letsgaze.com
You send me a link but
it’s broken, your mouth is moving but
the image is silent, miming
yes I can hear
you to a webcam over and over,
I can’t hear you
still.
Words lost in electrical
circuits, voice thin in the air.
It’s like downloading a corrupted file
or walking outside on a February day
and not feeling
anything. It’s like being in someone else’s dream,
the way you sometimes struggle
to scream
when the knife nears. You
lean to close the window.
Leave it open.
Bruises
Written in an exercise set by Selina Tusitala Marsh, responding to Tusiata Avia's poem 'Cheek'.
Ruby Porter is a prose-writer, poet and artist. She tutors creative writing at the University of Auckland, and in high schools. Ruby Porter is the author of Attraction, which won the inaugural Michael Gifkins Prize in 2018
Your office is in the science building
surrounded
by the walls of glass and city
where you didn’t grow up
and last week you walked to Sandringham
just to get to know it
outside the library I said
I just wanted to get to know you
but that was months ago now.
You read Foucault while others
taped photos of rocks to the wall
started smoking
then gave it up again.
Yet you can’t stay
your scholarship payments stopped but
your rent didn’t and
besides
Auckland has her fist around you
so tight that for a month
you stopped your walking
slowly going blind
inside your studio apartment.
Next weekend you’re giving
everything away
turning up to the Salvation Army
with years of your life in low cost
black plastic bags.
You cleaned your ceiling with a yellow cloth
it left stains around all the fittings
and the first night I met you
a man punched your nose on Ponsonby Road.
You bled
everywhere.
I tried to wash your denim jacket
in my kitchen sink.
You soaked your overhead grill
with Janola
and scrubbed your oven three times.
This is the stuff
I’m not taking back
your ex’s yoga mat
a pair of brown pants
a mirror
pots
and pans you’re
back in a city that knows you.
You send me photos of the hills.
For the last week you lived
out of one blue suitcase
we washed our forks
between our meals.
They were building a new high rise
beside your window
it’s still empty
I’ve been past it.
You left bruises on this city
they hurt to touch so sometimes
I visit them
just to feel something:
K Road
Myers Park
the new science block
Skycity
where I Ubered us
you, your mother and I
stranded in a concrete bay.
And there it was
your blue suitcase
in the belly of a bus.
And there I was
slow dancing away from you
towards the square of light
Southern Motorway coiling behind your shoulder.
The sight of you boarding
choked me
the way men have choked me
without asking.
The sight of you leaving
pulled me into the pavement
like a lover.