What is silver? Into this finger-space
the kotuku appears, flying once only
and far - to Holland, the vacated
...
Pepper blacks the pan so never shake it near me.
Wait for the flagrant animation in my bedroom, in my bed base.
In mountaineering situations sleep swaddled, wake ecstatic
my frantic menus in your mind.
...
I feel
said the woman on the bus
like I've swallowed a branch.
Is this a new flu?
...
She walked around a lot in her dressing gown.
When she got cancer she couldn't say it, the word itself.
Above the doorway was a thing in a frame: close up
...
Like trees, there are rings
in the small headbones of an eel
we count the rings to find the age.
...
I am the last born
I move through the crowd with my shiny red wheels
I bring with me large animals and flaming spikes in cages
...
My name is Tinkerbell, my jaws strong as
a crocodile. I see you turn from black
to white in the sun of the morning. I am seen
...
Hinemoana Baker was born in 1968 in Christchurch (New Zealand) and grew up in Whakatane and Nelson. She has tribal connections ranging from Otakou Peninsula to the Horowhenua and Maunga Taranaki. She is a poet, musician and playwright. Her writing has featured in anthologies and literary journals, and her first collection of poetry, mātuhi / needle, was published in 2004.)
Dismantling the crane
What is silver? Into this finger-space
the kotuku appears, flying once only
and far - to Holland, the vacated
apartment of your quiet friends
beaded slippers for sale
behind the silhouette
of the Moroccan woman whose feet
have been hurting her all day.
What is lost, here, where there was not
even eye contact, not even
eyes? Here a woman floated half-
miserable above land clutching
a posy - now there are growing
flowers, red with fat, sappy
green stalks and spongy leaves
and beside them the neighbourly
buttercups. Silver has become
hammer and aluminium.
The star in her firmament makes her way
over Rarotonga murmuring
hoki mai, hoki mai . . .
Meanwhile, how can this tui
be so violently black? White
petals could be made of
icing sugar, he flutters his wattle
with his two voice boxes. I sit here
wearing my bottletop, my lips
the dome above me dewy
with condensation. Outside
men in orange vests prepare
to dismantle the crane
its four ropes of chain rise
like snakes from the bed
of a dusty truck, link after link
on and on
until the morning is over.