Poetry Shelf Monday poem: Catherine Trundle’s ‘Quiet’




After this death I become    thin veined

my hands remade into petalled flesh.


I can hear the clink of my own laughter,

an undertow inside a metal chest.


The air tastes unexpectedly cheerful and,

at morning, like day-old smoke.


Since that day, I realise my face can be

both plain and shaded pyrotechnic.


His voice still combs through me like

bone fingers in wet hair.


The words I don’t use, that can only be said

in his vernacular, such as ‘risible’

and ‘hackneyed’


clock me awake, just when I am

arching    towards the left side

of our bed.


In Italian, they called a bed this size

matrimonial, like sleep and sex

can only be accomplished under a vow

inside a religion beneath a temple.


When you left, I felt the sky suck into my eyes

and all I could see were your old shoes

placed in the corner   and


your feet

becoming a garden

of marigolds.


Catherine Trundle



Catherine Trundle is a writer, mother and anthropologist, based in Wellington. She writes flash fiction, poetry and ethnography, and experiments with unpicking the boundaries between academic and creative genres. Recent works have appeared in Landfall, Not Very Quiet, Plumwood Mountain and Flash Frontier.

Listen to Catherine read ‘Undergrowth’ here






1 thought on “Poetry Shelf Monday poem: Catherine Trundle’s ‘Quiet’

Leave a Reply

Please log in using one of these methods to post your comment:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s