A new poem by Wellington poet and publisher Ash Davida Jane.

objects in the mirror are closer than they appear

if a dog digs
in the right spot and
unearths a rib
what do I care

if a woman grows from that bone
take her in and tend to her
dress her in linens
kiss her on the forehead

my family is full of women
stepping out from each other
like the Russian dolls
my grandmother kept

in the room where I
used to sleep
she is the only
pianist

at her church
after her death there is
no more music
the congregation

open their mouths to sing
and nothing comes out
at the funeral
a baby sicks up on my dress

I can’t stop laughing
as I hold him close
a warm body so alive
so unaware of our grief

The Friday Poem is edited by Chris Tse. Submissions are now being accepted until 31 January 2023. Please send up to three poems in a Word or PDF document to chris@christse.co.nz.