Lindsay Pope (IIML, Victoria University of Wellington, New Zealand)
The coast is a scribble. Stars are stored in a wooden box on my shelf. It is more black than white here. Like algebra but colder.
The hut’s walls are a ghetto of mice. Those I catch become whiskers of smoke in the firebox.
I attend to the scratching radio.
This is not my dream.
The short days are long here. Morse code stutters in my aerial.
Every door of the home of the wind has been thrown open. An albatross turns the world on a dip of its wing. It has learnt the axioms of the air.
Mice crawl in the pockets of my sleep.
I wake, clutching a stick of chalk. Each day a tally mark.
The mice have all but disappeared.
Clouds, black as slate, are heavy with names. They fall upon roof clutching ash.
On short wave the radio coughs all night long.
I have lost the frequency.
Lindsay Pope is currently studying creative writing at IIML, Victoria University of Wellington. His current work is informed by the human history of New Zealand’s sub-Antarctic islands.