New Poetry by Karen May

Words that repeat in the last verse 

Keening, for example. Why
does this sound, this cry,
recur?

Is it the diminishing
echo
of the earth’s great beat?
Tolling in tandem with
ours?
That smaller pulse,
more specific, more populous
yet partnered every
one
with the magnetic
core
of this grand ball.
Spinning dancer, she
may surprise
– and interrupt our wail –
with the rigour
of her natural law.
Weighing, calibrating
taking measure.
Confiscating, expunging
this oil-rich skin – this sugared
swag unshared, these
tender meats –
added and multiplied
in the last few beats.

Nourished too well
the breath
of water and of
flesh slows, keens
baneful tears. Mother
tends – crooning
cool winds
as she goes.
Unpicks sinew
rends heart
and fat
from bone.

Plants
a mangrove.


- Karen May 2019

Karen May writes poetry, sometimes combined with art practice. She is a climate and ecological activist and has lived for a long while in the Southern Tablelands and Canberra.