No single dream of god, no soul

no shadowy or shining river to fetch us surely home

only the faint chance of carbon

millions of years ago

and who we are or may be

and all our multiple kin

an outworking of DNA survival

joy, compassion, wonder

micro-patterned into the folds of our brain

triggered by neuron stimulation

yet to be part of all this

to sit in a garden talking of our being,

neurons alive

to the springing of tender grass

and the tiger lilies braving the wind.

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I don’t know what to do with all this happiness

– the old Danger notice all festooned with ribbons and flowers –

I don’t know what to do, I’m so happy

I want to throw you up in the air, high, high

out of sight

and where you land I’ll build a chapel.

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Nurture

with their deep open mouths round as harmony

their horns, animal faces, sturdy human bodies

bearing the holy things,

and their garments webbed with wind

fired with the colours of earth

the bend of sky on their feathers.

Pull out the ancestors

from the warmth of your armpits

your pockets, your hair

the faded box that’s always been there

the places you played as a child.

Against the whisperings of your aunts

take them elsewhere.

Sell your ancestor dolls

to the cultural museum

to pay for your college fees

become like the slim white girls

nibbling at small effigies of themselves.

Phoenix, Arizona 1999

Caroline Natzler

in collection, Design Fault, 2001,

Flambard Press, ISBN 1-873226-42-X

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How come there are still design faults

in things as normal as toasters?

Not a new device, edgy with the hubris of invention.

My grandmother had one. A grilled mouse

slid up over the rim one morning

sudden and flat as a stunt gone wrong.

I wake in the night sometimes, in pieces

– I’m darkness, choking –

Quite normal, people say, this fear.

Look after yourself, make yourself some toast.

Can one cook up comfort for oneself

must it not be given?

My old toaster wouldn’t switch off.

The elements went on burning, manic

until it shot into flames and caved in on itself

melting into folds of bruised, lumpen matter.

But the new one is cool to the touch, long as a smile,

gleaming with savoir-faire

even in the critical glare of the kitchen light

at this wrong time.

Inside, the elements are intricate

like bits of writing, or music.

They work to electronic timings till the toast is perfect.

It jolts up –

one slice tossed behind the unit

where there’s only dust and lost things –

the next flat on the cold white floor

final as a lid.

The spring’s too violent.

I open the curtains to numb dark shapes

open them wide to make the morning come,

trust it will.

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