blackmail press 37
Margaret Moores
New Zealand
Mere & Child - Penny Howard
Margaret Moores lives in Auckland New Zealand.She is a distance student at Massey University and works as a publisher's sales representative.

Self-portrait, 1929, Rita Angus

A self-portrait; she wears
an orange beret,
blue shirt roughly
brushed in — as if
to hide her body.  The face
with careful paint
gazes past hand
with brush to artist’s mirror
unlike this other, who
looking, sees
her mother
in an unexhaled
and turns away
from reflections
she refuses to allow.

Blue Corolla

A blue corolla hatchback
parked beside the yacht club.
A girl, white socks, pink hearts,
lies on the backseat;
legs spread, feet against the window.
Her eyes are closed, shoulders
pinned down by a boy
who is busy at sex.

On the brim of early morning
the islands of the Gulf float in brittle light
above a turquoise horizon.
There was a noisy room once,
full of smoke;  I watched
while the boy I thought I liked
took another girl away
to do it, I supposed, on someone’s
bed on top of  the coats
in return for a necklace of love bites.

The Waitemata, lapping against the sea wall,
wells up then subsides
like the duvet on our bed which
slipped to the floor this morning
while we spoke in  body language.
Half-finished sentences;
My leg across —
Your mouth on my —
as the sun rose
and the shadows
of the Coromandel sharpened in the distance.
Blue ridges blending into violet bruises.


Before digital,
in shoeboxes
formed slippery strata
of fading reds and greens
the colour of burned off grass
in late summer, brittle
under foot or the faded
tee shirt the boys both wore
until it ripped
on the nails of the fort
in the apple tree which
is still there. A reminder
of warm evenings,
light thick with dusk,
when they played spotlight
among the fruit trees
while we watched,
tethered by the last
heat of day
to the edge of night,
drinking wine —
gooseberries and lemongrass —
your hand a soft enquiry
on my thigh.

There is no photo of
the wine bottle
or the dark stain on the path
glittering with glass like
the stars  above the  night orchard
where torchlight flickered
through lattice work trees.
Just splinters of memory; the forgotten
frequencies of boys’ light voices,
the cool glimmer of summer
star light, negatives glowing white
from the heat
of a hand.