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A couple of poems, apparently.

Now. But not yet.

Stark, unmade tree

Violating Earth & Sky

Constructed to mock

Me and my sin

Us and our sin

Broken tree

For a broken body In a broken world.

The cross is wrongfulness on a hill.

And then

after a spread of poison hours

Logos asserts

to women’s witness

and the killing tree resolves to smooth-hewn wood

Earth & Sky clasp fingers, but no more.

The wood waits for its Real form.

Now, but not yet.

The method.

I watched the end of Last Tango in Paris the other day.

That scene

where Maria’s character

shoots Marlon’s character, and good job too.

I liked the way he died.

No glassy eyes staring up, limbs thrown about

like firewood.

But a gentle drop,

a curling inwards,

koropiko.

A gentle holding of the self,

corralling that escaping life,

to breathe it back in.

Not out.

Not yet.

Please.

About Sparrowhawk/Kārearea

Legal academic and writer, Wellington. (Te Rarawa, Ngāti Pākeha. Nō te Hāhi Mihinare hoki)

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