Nadezhda Macey
Open the Window, let the blue in
Lay me out like a towel, Princess Bay
sand catching between teeth and rest
the dunes slippery fine beneath me
her glitter body warm to curl up on
The seaweed scares us, curling up like hands,
we’re only girls so skulk in the shallows
anemone in the rockpools, you let me
touch the red for the first time
These soft sandpaper fronds of childhood
your frame on the bed 10/10
the milk oil light of evening
spilling across your waist
Back of the car, riverside, night concrete park
open the window, let the blue in
s
an alphabetical diary, after Sheila Heti
Sap sizzling, the scent hanging on my clothes. Sat by the park listening to jazz. Saw a picture of Theo and Sam and Nathan on the day of the funeral. Scritch and scritch away at this page and only a fraction of my sadness comes away with the ink. See, everything gets back to me eventually. Seemed too painless to be true. Seems to be the way with you. Set me free of any heartstring tied to NZ. She imitated Hannah with an American accent saying you were ‘so sad’ when she talked to you. She knocked on my door, and I on yours, and we returned to the cellar, pretending to get the piles of clean and folded laundry. She tells me I’ll be living her literal dream. She wants to go back to the way things were but what she misses no longer exists. She was also having a moment of ‘what am I going to do?’ She won’t go now, or at least not as soon as she thought. Sign and return forms. Sinews of the bean and your shoulder. Slender body rippling. So beautiful and European. So CRAZY! SO HOT WHEN WE ARRIVED, 8PM 33 DEGREES. Some kind of cigarette stance emerges — legs crossed leaning forward on the white plastic chair, or wide-legged, hip-popped, wrist bent back so the ash tumbles, flicked to gravel below. Some kind of Mary Shelley thing. Something strange begins to happen; the bunnies lose their ears, become water rats, and we no longer move through the same air, skies, streets. So much is happening and it all goes so fast! So soft, swell of light, drape the fabric and continue. So, so nice. So tired, so dreary. South Island looks closer and clearer than I’ve ever seen it. So weird not having the time. So when the dishes were done, the kids in bed, and the adults paused with coffee, cake and conversation at the table, we could slip away in the dark. Spaces to hang out — the commons! Students say — you’re 23, can’t have a messy room, but I’m 21. Such a good shop — got some cool postcards. Sunday morning news, wish I knew as much as you. Sunny cold day. Super strange not to talk for so many hours.
Nadezhda Macey (she/her) is a poet and student in Te Whanganui-a-tara. You can find her work in magazines starting with ‘s’: Starling, Symposia, and Salient.