New poetry by Auckland writer Joanna Cho.
Tsukuru, I wish I could watch a kererū
The roots of hyacinths are soft like leeks in the frying pan,
or feet in the bath
and it’s these that make a mess.
The locations of pipes, ducts and cables
and the direction of water flow
are rehearsed editors’ marks,
but sometimes it’s only a lunch special
and sometimes the wind knocks the vase off the windowsill,
waking the kids downstairs. Still,
you collect chestnuts,
on the walk home,
lining them next to sheets of piano scores.
Next door, your mother folds the sheets.
Tsukuru, your mother loves you.
Tsukuru, the kererū is known by other names too. Don’t
let the rice boil over.
Kererū like large, juicy plums
and can be identified by their mother’s summer skirts
they are protected.
The wind stretches and pulls, like paper damp from glue,
but if she forgets, I’ve got a spare.
Keep waving into the crowd, one hand in your pocket.
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