3 poems by Rachel J Fenton

HOW MUST THE SPUR-WINGED PLOVER

feel in this weather; this light brings to it softer seeing eyes for the plight 

of the other creatures on this planet trying to make sense of love 

in a climate that masks its ability to cause pain in a mist

of fine rain, so that, were you to look from a distance 

of a few feet or three years, you might mistake 

it for a kind of beauty;

kind of art;

kind.

LIKE SMALL FISTS DISPERSING

smoke, fog

made way for partridges

bombing their landings

like bad jokes;

displaced wisps

broke confidentiality

between the field’s

reception and cold air.

UNNAMED TRENCH, NEAR DARFIELD CLAY WORKS, CIRCA 1987

Of red

clay from this no insect

was created;

they built me, wedged my legs

kneaded air

from my lungs, I was thrown

and turned,

my thoughts became the colour

of beetles’

blood, vitreous fired and kilned.

From bricks,

boys built a tower from which

I blow.

About the contributor

Rachel J Fenton is a working-class writer living in Aotearoa New Zealand. Her poetry has appeared in English, Magma, The Rialto, Ink, Sweat & Tears, and a chapbook of poems, Beerstorming with Charlotte Brontë in New York, is forthcoming from Ethel Zine and Micro Press in 2021.

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