I.
Those bitches at school can get fucked now

I’m an actress, I’ve made something of my life 
lives alone in a bush hut without electricity

rats run over the food she leaves lying around

bags of clothes and a loaf of mouldy bread

stashed under the porch
fifteen hundred kilometres from Invercargill to Picton

takes the ferry, misses the connection in Rotorua

loses her bag forever in Tauranga

arrives frayed and worn as an intercity bus tyre
above our heads gulls sweep low along the beach

the sound of the ocean and rhythm of the waves

does little to lift the swelling angst –

was her medication in the bag?
a cosy room, clean sheets and comfy bed

hot roast dinner with all the trimmings

she devours it, takes a second helping

You’ve always been mean to me
she pecks at my crumbling composure

with therapists’ jargon

Are you sure you wanted to pick me up?

Did you have an issue with that?
buses to Auckland to catch her flight to London

leaves her passport under the bed in Nelson

the jumbled suitcase overweight with essentials

false boobs, high heels and beauty treatments
II.
she’s eight, we watch Fantasia for the third time that day

hiding behind the couch, her eyes wide

the Easter bunny a tormenter

at the fair she screams for silence
she’s a teenager, won’t touch door handles

Towels have a lot of bacteria 

on the train the panicked call to Nan

she doesn’t know where she is