Tijler’s song
I want to own myself in your

eyes feel the ruin culminate

in this belonging –

to pretend it’s a song

that roughens at the knees

/ music ashy on falsetto

there’s something hot about breathing

you in while we watch for the fish to pass

                                          scales hanging off the windows

                                          I want to spit the bones out onto saucers

                                          let them prick our tongues on the way out

                                          so maybe we’ll laugh

it begins like that.

and

it’s coal, yet

; they poured something bruised

over my palms so

black it’s purple, right?

I wipe my hands

(wipe hands)

Relearn, relearn you.

taxed sun, how many

hours make a promise?

did you know that when I was younger

we called that wishing?

day breaks across

our fingers

crumbling into ants

that crawl towards the hipbone.

a drum hails out of flesh.

could break my back

from:

rollie pollies down no tree hill

sticks and grass Snowballs

ones with the mallow middle us. chew chew.

– I don’t owe you secrets / can’t help it.

balancing along the fence

walk the lattice metal top of a pie on its side

and feet begin to slip rip

-don’t end up grazes / can’t help it.

stand out in the sun when

it’s mounted at the points of trees

yes, it dares for fingers popping tapioca pearls

                                                so what if we have fish bones

                                                pierced through our cheeks?

                                                that’s irony.

                                                that’s jaw metal coins we might

                                                hand over for the soul boat

                                                have them ready together

                                                the water dances on us     as us

                                                that’s how movement should be

                                                a certain angle of stippling

beneath this open bracket moon

hands that twine wind

struggle on bloom

go to catch us sprinting

with our mothers with our fathers

don’t get too puffed out

to say nothing we didn’t

, Babe, learn the sand

that shakes out of rock

(treat its dilution)

learn to sew

a quilted tongue

warm on.

it gets better as we season

the laziest heats

that we can’t move in           with a tree’s kiss

                   tell me

(mouthing doesn’t mean shit)

                  tell me

(the branch broke in my wallet)

how much could we buy this sky for?

Getting semi-Magritte on you, yeah

and still bark cracked              veins

                                                     enter the gates.

                                                     that bird’s nest

                                                     (from different kinds)

                                                     worn like a metal grass skirt

                                                     around Pulotu.

                                                     watch Cerberus-threedog dance the Sāsā

                                                     slapping his chest, shoulders,

                                                     elbows, bend easy fish bones

                                                     they’re sharp as tears

                                                     sometimes

                                                     our own a weapon fragile.

our own, an unsheathing.

I’ll be dressed in an ‘Ie Toga

and you know, who will care?

I’ll carry up the Taupou’s knife

and feel a path around my eyeliner.

there’s a pastry lipped

way of the spin

don’t, worry, is hard to know

when a clock bends its back

dawn’s reversal

the March

the drum roll

on tin boxes

think of all those echoes

that bridge while we wait

and tell me again

I’m graceful

if only for the second

(feed a heart its own

lasts longer.)

falling slowly to my knees

arc my back

fingers river-ed on air

a stream-dancing.
my baby oiled skin trace imprints

of this sky

watch yourself dance with me

on this floor

turning hooks as needles

stitch ourselves an ocean

one petal on scale

then another

watch our hands weave over

and over

the faint wash of frangipani petals

the snap of freshly caught fish

the way our knees click together

as we curl this kind of embroidery

on top of a granite platform.