a² + b²

The ginger’s arm semi-circled
thrice with pedantic precision
before the cricket ball slung
from his stumpy finger prison.

The kikuyu-grass flinched
then shuddered as a giant,
narrow and green-veined, hooked
his cumbersome Kookaburra bat.

The cow-leather plunged
into the willow’s sweet spot,
stuttered, and launched
to the alabaster gibbous.

Our ear canals rattled
with copper kōtuku;
our peach fuzz rustled
as Light raced Sound.

Not as chalk smacked
against blackboard, not as
a bow-tied Sir prattled on,
but as two spotty juniors,

palms Pepsi-glued, kneeled
at the oft-frequented altar
of How hard can we hit
this fuggin’ thing?,

our worlds ruptured.
Our kneecaps, trickling secrets,
hitherto were only plastered
green or khaki– never, by Mother Gaia

masochism, crimson-gored.
In our worldly worship, we,
like test tube menisci, bowed–
clinging to each other; to the grass.

Whenever our windows are shook
by thunderclaps after blue flashes,
or across a valley, a dog’s jaw snaps
before its bark stretches over the creek,

we recall what we absorbed
from our pimpled teachers: The Cow
leaps the moon, they professed,
before the Kookaburra laughs.

This poem appears in From Arthur’s Seat