3 poems by Rachel J Fenton

Peas on Earth 
 
Seedlings greetings, I write in chalk 
on reusable labels, tuck them in the pots 
 
recycled and covered with paper then we walk 
to our neighbors. My son makes each stop, 
 
running up the steep gardens to learn 
kindness isn’t concrete, it must be grown.  





Twenty Years After 
 
‘Twenty Years After What?’  
asks Jim, bringing an armful of shirts,  
unsure he wants to keep the hangers – he doesn’t –  
or the jacket with the ripped sleeve he’s fond of,  
and gestures for me to pass three books  
from inside the counter. Before I lift one  
out from under the glass, I say,  
‘It’s all relative,’ and he laughs.  
Book in hand, he exclaims, ‘War!’ Riffs 
puns the way the guitarist in the market plays 
‘Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door.’  
 
Not sure if it’s the same day the shop sign blew 
down the street in the hot Nor’ Wester, 
or when the frame woman shouted 
at the boy with brown skin  
but said, ‘No, love,’ to the pākehā kid 
for doing the same thing, I know for certain 
this is twenty years too late to be happening 
still. All over a five-buck bag  
of donated plastic. One green soldier stands 
under her, pointing his rifle
up her skirt like a war crime, forgotten.


Dylan isn’t playing but the man 
who covers him is interested in records. 
Jim, hands me his jacket, 
insisting I find a lady to mend it
until I stand up straight and ask,  
‘If it’s so special, why don’t you keep it?’ 
‘I’ll have these.’ He buys all three volumes, 
hugs their hard backs to his chest 
the way a parent maneuvers 
a child having a tantrum,
instructs me to throw his jacket in the bin.






A Trip to Twizel 
 
You told me I looked like Virginia Woolf  
this morning. It was as if you had blood 
between your teeth, because I was happy  
 
I had written a poem about Plath. You said  
you would have had another book out by now 
if you hadn’t had bad advice. 
 
Standing on the deck   
my ex invited us on a trip to Twizel –  
room to squeeze a few more in –  
 
how he worded it. You pulled a face, 
started pushing  
plates in the sink, said, ‘Look at the weather 
 
report.’ My ex jumped ship. OK  
except he took my middle kid. 
This evening you heard me in the kitchen, 
 
made yourself glacier on the rice, 
stuck to the cooker  
like the Endurance. I asked about the trip.  
 
You denied any knowledge of it, got angry  
because ‘It’s one of the places I want to go,’ 
you said: ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ 
 
I reminded you I did but you, tensing,  
accuse me of not communicating,
say you didn’t understand me,
 
never heard me. You said,  
‘You should take lessons and learn to speak 
clearly.’ You turn up the gas. I keep the peace. 

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Rachel J Fenton lives in Oamaru in Te Waipounamu, Aotearoa, where she is Curator of Janet Frame House. Her poetry has been published in Magma, The Rialto, Landfall, and anthologies. She is the author of Beerstorming with Charlotte Brontë in New York. 

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