nana would make me bran muffins. i'm reminded of them
here, tonight, an incense stick keeping me company,
a glam-rock outfit on in readiness for ahi's 21st.
ahilapalapa is her full name, one of those remarkable
polynesian outpourings of fullness,
for another child to wrap this earth in dream
journeys and fresh hope, for another book
written by a haphazard yet devout mind centred
on finding that circle, that lucky stone
blue with a touch of rose, given golden
connotations of every home.
i often think i frizzle each defining moment away
in a suitcase. paint each corner with sigils
likened to mythological creations: pegasus, griffins,
each wing unfurled to show something
of that frailty underneath i give only
to a chosen, beautiful few. this is my deliverance
whispered on mountains where there is only sky
to give you warmth, where each connection
is a voiceless ocean, a smoky ritual.
why, for just one night, can one escape
the trials of raising oneself ever higher?
there is bliss, i know it's there:
a peace i've yet to touch, a potion
of feathers and drums in aurora nights.
glassblown, we dance.