Art Nahill is an Auckland physician and has been published in numerous American journals as well as Poetry NZ, Takahe, and Landfall.
Triangulating
I woke startled
from a memory of you
the afternoon we skipped
Trigonometry
and you taught me instead
to play
Red Light Green Light
along the length
of your thigh.
I had not thought of you
for years though
the incidental trajectory
of laughter
through an open window
the improbable angles
of sunlight
through early summer leaves
has often given me
sweet inexplicable
pause.
Gypsy Flamenco
She dances for cigarettes
and coin-clatter
to battered six-strings
rhythms drummed
on empty olive tins
as I watch
heady with Spanish wine
and the allure
of the dispossessed.
She is a cavern of secrets
of hollowed voices
as she gathers
her fraying hem
to her knees
staccato steps
like gunfire
through the riddled Pyrenees
a quickening vessel
bearing me
to the far banks
of desire.
