TranzCoastal Train, Picton to Kaikoura, NZ
At home, we make up
rules for movement.
If you bump me again,
not anger but a kiss. Our kitchen
is small for two cooks,
though I prefer to think
of you as sous chef. In bed,
a guest room double,
your elbow grates
into my back. Traveling
or at the movies,
it’s unclear to whom the armrest
should belong. I’m not angry
exactly, but in the night
I’ve thought, chop it. Elbows,
like mesquite, aren’t easy
to remove. Cut one down
and it gets angry, grows up
a dozen or more, long,
longer-thorned replacements.
On this island’s coastline
boulders jut up like elbows,
no more than one or two
fur seals share
each jutting stone. I stretch,
raise my arms over
my head, yawn, pleased
by view and novelty; you’re quick,
bracing your arm
on the rest between us,
smiling as you turn your gaze
just west toward your own
smug reflection, the long line
of mountains broken up from land
it’s hard to believe was ever flat.
