He kept quail
She accidentally let his dog out
And it killed one of them
He made her a necklace of blown quail eggs so delicate
That it ached to look at it
She could never wear it
But she submitted to it
She had a pet baby rabbit
That she would feed every morning after they had made love
One day he made her a necklace of bunny tails
Strong and fluffy on the outside
But sad on the inside
That tickled and itched under her clothes as she walked.
On overcast days she loved watching the pukekos
Their white tails flashing and bobbing like the tutus
She used to wear when she danced
As they searched beside the motorway
For their own hidden delicacies
He gave her a necklace of 2 severed pukeko legs
That crossed and uncrossed as she walked
That she hung over her bed at night
And put on again in the morning.
In passion, she told him she wanted children
He gave her the skin of a baby goat
Soft and cured but
Somehow missing something
They had friends over for a meal
She laughed and flirted
Conscious of his gaze
Her laughter like the tinkling of bells
He gave her a necklace of porpoise teeth and kowhai seeds
That he had spent hours drilling into
And threading each onto the strands
Of his own commentary
That day, on the beach
A baby oyster-catcher sat on her lap
Unsteady and unbidden but trusting
Picking at the aquamarine stone
He had given her
On the ring she had made for it
Using her own grandmother’s gold
He took a photo to capture the moment
But she was not allowed to return
To the beach again that summer
Despite the cries of the birds
That the moment was not his to capture
When she left him
He followed and asked her
To return all the gifts he had given her
As a token of his undying love
She gave him the eggs, the tails, the legs, the skin
The teeth and the seeds in a box with a ribbon round it
But kept the ring and the oyster-catcher
That had never left her and
Would always be for her alone
