Each night

each night I lie in bed, spurred and splintered,
to tape your breath, kiss the guinea pig

that died in my keep, hair flick, to
flick you alive

each night I marry
a replica of god’s first limb

and break his fingers
one by one

each night I dote on a
history of bacteria

and a
bonfire of lungs

now that it’s over I think
that everything was right

sending one eve after another
to dam the days

and bloat like gentle bodies
in a duck pond

desired but unkept
civil but without title

time and useless words flood the orange grove
we could not sell so

stave the price of your high season
through my bad mouth

jesus sits up, raises a paw
it’s just enough

if I once thought that love memorized the years
then I grew time like an apple

and still do –

smiling at trees
on account of their age

I record it if I can –
in a spray of words,

I try to acknowledge what it is
I’ve always wanted

I will keep recording it,
when i am able

you won’t be there,
but you would’ve liked the scene

and me in it



Danielle Todd is a poet and short story writer from New Zealand. Her work has appeared in titles such as A Fine Line (NZ Poetry Society), Oscen, Join the Dots, and Little Stone Journal. She is currently working on her first poetry collection from France.