Pylades and Electra, 1935

His first gift for them both a pair of bicycles.

She watches while he pushes up the street: posture, forearms. A beat
to recognise each other’s bright and golden eye, then they’re pedalling
and off. Cycle clips at his achilles, her skirts above her knees. The city

is a macadam grid. The city is a weft of creeks and streams. The city
is a dome of coal smoke, a mat of fallen blossoms disassembling into petals.
Timber cottages turn to bungalows beside new bare parks, behind old churches

and their orphanages. Where it hurts to look they pedal faster, hope to see
nothing at all. Shingle under earth under sealed road will tolerate them,
though it’s hard to say how long harm waits to choose a moving target.

Above, the furies circle so high the unchaperoned take them for birds. O my
very tender ones, my young and darling pair.

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Megan Clayton (she/they) writes and performs from Sockburn, Ōtautahi Christchurch, where she works in higher education. Poems and essays by Megan have been published in collections and journals in Aotearoa and Australia.