Her spine a straight line into weather
The cold grey light against the white river the grey stones the grey and white clouds.
Probably the mouth of the Rakaia.
I can see the top half of his head in the side mirror, furrowed, impatient, impotent.
This image distracted me from the flying baby and you in your long red dress.
Your oversized forearm, a wrestler’s desperate hold around her bare bottom.
Arched bare feet in shadow against the boulders.
Your other hand gripping the tiny foot, her arms
reach for the grey white sky.
Her spine a straight line into weather.
Your lips are frozen stone on her bald round head, your eyes grey slits.
She’s heading straight for the white river, a slippery fish, cold and urgent.
And you, you go under, sink stony frozen, grey and white.
Your air is oxygen is and there is none.
He revs and revs the engine.