Hansini Wijekoon
In the Afternoon
A moose walks east; three more follow.
Alpaca-wool game on a handmade hat.
Outside, the snowfall thickens.
We become clay figures inside a shoebox.
I do not have a best friend, but
with you, there is so much to speak about.
Your hands are warm,
they lift me into the branch of a tree.
Teeth wine-imbrued from the evening passed,
it is nearing midday as you tell me,
for the first time, that you love me.
I almost said it aloud, by mistake, months ago.
Callow and childlike, undressing one another,
Here, have all of me.
In the space collapsed by collarbones
my mouth finds a heartbeat.
I wade through pools of moonlight,
they all shine like bright fires.
I have fallen through ice — there is no air.
This is a closeness I have never known.
Head between white shoulder blades,
these are hours for sleep. Instead,
my laugh finds the shell of your ear
and it is the only thing that matters.
I am laying down and you kiss my knee.
Entwined — where do I end, and you begin?
This is not enough,
I must become your lungs.
Once, I whispered into your hair,
I adore you; I never want to not know you.
Now, I wonder if you talk to me
inside of your thoughts.
I kneel into a splintering pier,
head submerged in the sea.
Betrayal is heavy and leering,
and I am changed, forever.
Sucking on the stone of a plum,
it is habit to brew two cups of tea.
I ask the ginger, and lemongrass leaves,
Is there still a place I can go, in the afternoon?
In the Morning
Something stirs.
An itch, a shuffle,
a perfect circle, warm,
pressed to my side.
He should want to walk,
but sleep still clings to him.
If I move, it will break the spell,
a small cruelty in this stillness.
His eyes,
clouding now with the haze of years,
still brightly shine
in the soft cradle of morning.
I am fully awake, and he,
my shadow, sits.
The milk in my cup
swirls, soft ribbons fading
into a sand-coloured sea.
The spoon glides,
a quiet rhythm.
On the hardwood floor,
life echoes tea;
he spins, chasing his tail
around, and around.
The butterknife slips,
smoothly through apricot flesh.
Each piece,
a crescent of sun,
fragile as seashells.
Beside the counter,
his head tilts —
not confusion, but a clever ploy.
I cannot say no.
We share the fruit,
as we share everything.
In that moment,
a lifetime distilled.
He is not here for long.
Hansini Wijekoon is drinking a lot of tea because it’s chilly in Dunedin. Hansini’s ginger tea recipe: one black tea bag, two small chunks of a ginger root & a minimum of four spoons of sugar.