Hinemoana Baker
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.
