Angela Trolove
New Zealand

Karakia Precari - Penny Howard 2016

Another is making breakfast for the man I love. I sleep on canvas, up to my kidneys in dirt miscellany. Garments are pushed hard up against the tent's sides leaving a channel in which to bide. My palms are traumatised with abrasion and tiny olive flowers scatter in the moon breeze into troughs of sediment. We find them in the morning in abandoned crockery. I have refused to dramatise any dishonesty.


The breeze is kind to me. What do I love? If I were not my impulses if I were a specimen, I would love and leave. As it stands, I don't want to write about it. I take off my sandals, the dirty cloth falls away.

A chainsaw exalts in the valley. A hammer on planks sounds closer than intimacy. A stripped trunk behaves like a hammock below the crane and a workman walks the skyline to meet it, as you would an elephant. Lowered and released, the chain rises now a jellyfish. My fathers go walking in the forest, panini and mela, I am shackled to a substance. I am wholesome and I love being stranded on description into pages completely. I run and frown. I understand myself. I also speak through a glass prohibition to myself, light a candle, light a man's cigarette and leave too soon. My feet on stone thirty feet above one thousand feet above sea level. Swallows are swift. Keeper sits behind me and picks the bones out of my brain as the spine from a fish as pine needles from my hair. My sister walked from rise to set shin deep in snow. I can't give a definition for sanctity. Today I am an attendant of myself and I am an attendant of the moon. I can see the forest of the trees.


ring of citrus
around the spilling fountain
blue grey pigeons curving in,
sparrows extreme and momentary above the water

sand drizzled on the feet
there is a dry cold afterfeeling on the skin
may I be delivered into the hands of beautiful men and
in the third minute be crucified

my palms felt smoother than dust
yellow flowers are falling like the sky


You will be conveyed in manners of your wildest dreams - a dog with her snout slung through the gaping mesh behind you, a baby rosemary clod in a plastic bag shivering beside the water canister on the floor. A high roof in the back seat, a red worn cloth singing in vivid and fade.

'Is that your diary?' Yes. Or my hourly.

The future is not obscure. The future is made up of all this tangible matter right here! I caress the plastic lid of a water bottle.

I am laughing. It has been like riddle. You ask what is the future? I weed at the threat. Now, I am laughing, the future, of course, is made of cuoio and apple juice and all those things it has always been made of - poplars, bamboo, long grass in the south of France. And voices, human singersong writers I love. Raw tabacco smell.

My daily labour of describing is paying dividends - I can already describe where (I don't know) we will sleep tonight. I can describe the feelings when we are moved on or when we wake silent unattended in the mineral morning. And this is something we all have in common, if you are the polizia or the pirates - the sound of water, the way your adrenals perform, the smoothness of concrete, the behaviour of light because of sunset, the figure of broom leaves, the fur on its flowers.

I am a perceiver and you are a perceiver and from there we are believers in who knows what. Enchanted, pleased to meet with you.


In my mind my clothes have turned to silk, and that is usually enought. I pass men shifting gravel, sole deep their gumboots, my religion summarised, and the silk dressings elusive. I gave all my treasure to the eaves last night. I did not descend on the resting uomo like an approaching mystery soluble in love, intended to smooth the wide bare arm folded over his pile of bedding in the dim, and, by enactment, coalesce untroubled songs of the nervous system.

Either I did something good last night - unreported responses aside, or I capped my hand over the mouth of the Fate and did not learn a new and most beautiful story. Either about two beings taking hands premontions of recollecting unity, or of dissuasion. I could only have given myself torment. No humanity can surpress this.

My entirety is bedded down in heavy clothing. The air, cool after rain, on my toes and unguarded legs. In the time it has taken me to speak, cobbles are dried. Kerfuffle has multiplied beyond my delicate mahi. Perfumes from various women overlap in the air.

When I walk the streets with no complications of romance performing sweet cryptic in my frontal lobe I have very little to think about. Alongside an avenue of sycamores I observe an old cat pad carefully and settle inside a domestic carpark. Then he rises and walks painfully to another area of no significance. Two men shout something at me and one smiles showing me the palm of his hand as they pass. A nun goes by. A young man's necklace glints in the storm light.

In the shallows, there is a wake from every shell. Monocrop umbrella stands are planted along the shore. Very few things have remained unanimous. The sea has. A leaf skiffs toward me.

Mulled and wrapped in so many clothes I step into a bed of cotton, wilted under the use of another, his motions. Always I am too cold here, but this time I asked and he lifted jerseys down for me, acrylic, but dry. I saw thousands of clothes today and left with none, none was right. My preferences are not shallow, they are profound. The Divine understands. It is likely I will too.


I woke and got dressed and crouched on the floor of the van with my towel, a pamphlet, and a bucket to clean the dust. I poured my water for the dog. Outside a man gave me biscuits for my journey, we didn’t speak much but we did okay. I finger brushed my hair. I put rubbish in a bin and dust on the grass. I slept a little more. I wrote. I listened to the dog lick wetly her shin, strangers came and went from the roadside. I made writing exercises to determine my future. I thought of you. My notes for intentions for my future are in a small book, the back pages fall out. My head is heavy and I raise it. Graffiti on recycling crates. A black van pulls in front of them and a man has gone for a fag.

The something which will eventuate has a name. I am dirt in the mud, my ethos has me. I did not thank the van for starting, it was more fitting to have always believed that it would, calm as grass while it didn’t turn over and over and over.

I thought that he was making up after their fight but he was touching the gearstick, not her knee.

I don’t know what it is to be born into enemy.

Angela Trolove practices writing and waitressing in Dunedin. She was raised in North Canterbury. During her recent travel in Europe she developed an interest in poetry caused at the intersection of languages. She is currently co-authoring a book of essays, Rain School, with Belgian philosopher Egon Vlerick, as well as a bilingual book of poetry Tocco Di Lavoro, with illustrator Nicolas Sidoli. Further writing can be found at