Tangihanga
at the pā
nā rātou te kawa
rātou ngā wāhine
e mau panekoti ana
my father
stands to speak
I am a needle of bone
on my auntys knee
I have cut my hair
handled gently
I am a thatched weapon
a flake of obsidian
something skirting
the boards of the house
as if it were a property
what he says is like
bread or a bruise
there is a rushing to the edges
the scent of kawakawa releases
into the dark-fleshed home