Two poems

by Robert James Berry

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means owl.

In the far north
where big rivers run hard
where the sun bubbles like a kettle
our road bakes in peculiar light.

Dust storms when a wagon trundles by.
The Swamp Palace cinema,
a converted barn,
showed its last flick in 1947;
in its roof trees
under a round moon,
owls roost.

There is never rain.
Only drought.

We wash our crockery
in old bathwater
cows stumble from sunstroke
above a cracked earth.

But the owls, moon-eyed,
sleek from killing
can be heard come dusk.

They are a chorus:


Peppery eggplant
tart aubergine,
plump and curvaceous
as a wide-hipped bride.

you have mystique
a deep purple blush,
immaculate skin,
a seedless heart.

Impressively phallic
to dizzy schoolgirls
such a shame
to cube you,
fry you in ghee.

I shall let you sit
on the work rack
pendulous, so much more
than vegetable.

Robert James Berry lives and writes in Dunedin, New Zealand. His poetry has been published widely. His ninth collection “Toffee Apples” is due out at the end of 2014, from Ginninderra Press, Port Adelaide, Australia.

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