Cut the globe in half what you are left with
will look like that slip of moon out my window.
where are you?
My small typed words &
your instant reply:
a picture of the cobblestone
square you are standing in.
Morning foot traffic moves past &
we both stare for a while.
This world is unintelligible to me.
In your daylight I can forget my moon but still
it tugs my heart – where are you? – in rhythmic strokes:
hoe, hoe, hoea rā. I can almost taste the salt.
I know we’ve escaped because
there are more stars in this place
so I tell you all about light years:
how when I first heard about them
I was small and I felt smaller
and I’ve grown a little taller since then
but not as much as I like to pretend
And I rush past people to make sure
that they don’t notice.
Henrietta Bollinger is an intentional poet/playwright and an accidental sociologist – sometimes the other way around. She lives in Wellington.