Two poems by Leah Dodd
bus poem #2
bikini kill plays softly
on the driver’s
Bluetooth speaker
​
a woman in black gives a fistful
of cigarettes to a person sitting
outside countdown
​
wide lonely clouds
sweep across the city
​
locked doors glint
in the dark
​
an op shop window presents
a pack of tarot
a tarnished buddha
​
sleeves billow in the wind
like candlestick maidens
gothic and restless
​
a girl with a purple instrument case
talks on the phone while she walks
says HA
​
two chandeliers glow
on the ground floor
of M’s old flat
​
the couple up front sever
in two
when one gets off
at Kelburn shops
​
thick lilies line the hills
like white knights
with buttered tongues
​
all the houses have beating hearts
small flames
that burn within
clucky​
in poems, babies are like snacks
they are doughy loaves, apple-cheeked
sweet as pie, sausage toed
​
like the hungry caterpillar except
the snacks are small human limbs
​
I fall victim to the metaphor
call my peach fuzzed baby yummy
because he is so tasty I could just toss him in some olive oil
then roll him into a kebab
​
I had a friend who kept six kittens
in a cardboard box
​
I had to physically stop her from nibbling
their tiny grey ears off because
they were so cute she
couldn’t help herself
​
this is similar: the sweet milky smell
of brand-new skin,
those pillowy cloud-nine cheeks, the tiny hands
​
it’s a perfect storm
like looking over the edge
of a cliff, arms full of treasure
Leah Dodd is a Wellington poet who is currently studying an MA in Poetry at the International Institute of Modern Letters. Her work has appeared in Starling, Stasis, the 2021 Poetry New Zealand Yearbook and other places.