egg and frog

flash: Whenua

Whenua There were three of us already planted in the backyard: Wiremu, Mataī, and me.  ‘Why am I the smallest?’ I ask Mama, looking at my tree. ‘Because you were the youngest, Aroha. Don’t you worry, you’ll grow in time.’ She pushes my hair away from my eyes, and smiles. But not like she used

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Poetry. Cotquean, by Christopher Jones. Image: a pair of boxing gloves suspended from a knitting needle and thread. In the gloves, the silhouette of a man and his son.

poetry: Cotquean

Cotquean I’m sewing up tears in my boxing gear: a needle, black thread and bachelor stitches. I’m cross-legged on the bathroom floor while Pharaoh splashes in the tub beside me, a pink and laughing treasure two years long. I ran his bath, undressed his happy body. Now I wash his hair, speak quietly through the

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