I have to stop romanticizing my own blood.
i write about red whenua
with my toes dipped
knee and hip bent
sun kissed beads on
wrinkled forehead
a squint breath and push
to make it count
you slid from me and I
lamented a karakia
like hinetītama
or māui
heavy feet fell and folded
into my arms
son,
identifying with potting mix
keeps us humble
languid homeless
wet lipped and tired
this fecund space we made
a sordid blend of
coffee and clay
whiskey and wood
tea and
waipiro / poisoned springs
clash of metal on rock
spade thrust aeration
turn over
spill seed for the future
you / make / me / make / you
future lineage place return to
i regret what we discarded
what never made it i was young or
dumb or ignorant
a waste bin is no home
our flesh / in fire
whenua / ki te para / no-rangawaewae
just debt
and open legs
like envelopes
or a quarry
one day I will open my palm on your cheek
amongst piles of clothes on the floor
we agree to live in the moment
and dig ourselves out
from the concrete 
wtaf:
i.
i used to be scared of being kidnapped
because I always had a blocked nose
so if they taped my mouth with duct tape
i would have suffocated
before they could actually torture or murder me
which somehow feels worse
ii.
i find it hard to place stickers
in a permanent place
sticking an image
in a place it doesn’t fit
stabs at my feet and fingers
what if the sticker doesn’t go there
what if it falls off
what if it’s lost and I can’t stare at it
iii.
my thumbs work out
tomorrow is Monday
trending ramen recipe
beheaded children
a dachshund in a yellow coat
a pretty woman sitting on a cake
ai monsters eating spaghetti
starving survivors
literal bombs
and now I’m paying a fucking power bill
Kauri:
I smoke when I’m sad
The tar lines my veins
Like roads
Going everywhere, going nowhere
Who can tell which is which
I am a fallen tree
My trunk is porous
From a million hungry mouths
Of you inspect each crevice
You’ll find more empty
Than tree
Now I walk with mute eyes
Leaving ephergies of us
in every mulching footstep
And Yet
The pavement doesn’t shatter
The sun still sets and
Perhaps
I am not as powerful as I thought
Three months of te pō passed as I was
Blindfolded, desperately seeking mirrors
a new year / a frozen breath
I saw everyone else’s faces
But my own
At the worst I aspired to hold a pillow over my Mother’s face
I learnt that her gasps were a plea
A language she shared with me
A request I could not fulfil
I am sick of being told I am strong
When I can’t even say her name anymore
I sleep in the crook of Hine Takurua’s arms
Her feathered kakahu is tucked under my hips
And Those shards of eyes rise on her forehead
And I say karakia after karakia
to Hiwa-i-te-Rangi’s perfect form
Asking why, why this wero, why this kauri? Why this pathway?
I am so fucking
depressed
I could not face Pohutakawa and her overwhelmingly honest face
Matariki, mata ariki, Tawhirimatea
Eyes of the wind see
They see me, but still
I’ve spent Nine months blindfolded
And the light is still painfully stark
So now I spend days pretending I know which road I’m taking
Like, that Fallen kauri just lifted itself off the road
Like it’s twigs and leaves aren’t scattered like my thoughts
And my heart isn’t the pulp at the bottom of the smoothie I inhale
I’m just trying to survive okay?
So I look to the sky and it’s like,
That kauri is still there.
I lie beneath my ancestors teeth
And the truth is painful
But I am too tired to even lift my damned head
So I am here, and she is here, and we are. Here.
And that is all that matters.
Fuck
The last good day erased itself
Taniwha would thrash rivers through my lashes
White pills help me forget that I’m part Irish too
But held in the space between my heart
And stomach
I remember taniwha hungry kisses inside my cheeks
Like a child’s, like a warriors
my breasts are god
Today is a new day / a high day
Blossoms unfurl in springs crisp chest
Hā ki roto
Is it safe to break through the shell?
Kiss koanga pinks and reds
Orgasm in the sun
Lay magnolias around bare feet
Post to instagram
morning routine –
it is 7:30am and the alarm is going the fuck off
in this moment I am
one finger one eye one screen
an experiment a dream
just eyelids on pillows
adrift
asleep
until I remember who the fuck I am
it is now 7:50 a.m.
and my heart leaps into my eyes and beats them wide, wide open.
i rise
albeit groggy and limp
sit amongst languid sheets
like a garden
stare into my folded reflection
in full bloom and
proofing like freshly kneaded dough
yes, I rise
you are behind me and you are
deep asleep with your perfect
porcelain
breasts
uncovered
rising and falling
like the ocean
like a slow orgasm
like an empire
it is 7:55am and I am dressed
my legs fight stair after stair
as our 12-year-old leo sun is in the lounge
uniformed and eating weetbix
I gratefully kiss his forehead
and ask how he slept
“good thanks, how about you”
I think of my lover’s tongue and hands
and the way they taste so sweet
round my throat
and I reply “good thanks”
and think
this is the mouth that fights
that flirts
that fucks
and this is also the mouth that asks my only child
how he slept
and rains kisses upon his forehead like
I wasn’t face deep in pussy 10 hours ago
it is 8:03 a.m. and I am lovingly making a sandwich
the smearing, the cutting, the placing
muscle memory pathways, my hands expertly nimble,
these are the hands of my ancestors
of gardeners
of navigators
these are the hands that soothe
that coo
that hold with gentle understanding
these hands have known a million different ways to love
these hands, are his hands too
and then I think about
how he is completely capable of making this sandwich
and how this sandwich isn’t actually a sandwich though
but a blanket
a hand held
a thumb wiping a teary cheek
a reassurance that he is safe and loved
that he can trust in this connection
it is 8:10 a.m. and we pack his bag
get into the car and all down Bealey Ave
Lil Nas X is singing about
not fucking bitches
coz he’s queer
and we both sing it loudly
and my sun tells me about a TikTok where
a Man trails protein powder behind him
whilst sarcastically stating
“I hope a gym bro with thick thighs
doesn’t follow me home
how sad would that be”
and we both laugh
and laugh
and laugh until it is 8:28 a.m. and
I ask if he knows what that means
and he pats his hair outside the school gates saying “yes”
and I reply “Ok – just making sure”
he leans on my shoulder for
the kiss,
the “I love you” kiss,
the reassurance kiss.
so I plant the kiss in his hair
and hope it roots deep
he swings his bag over his shoulder
it is heavy, thuds his back like a man
off he walks in those worn leather shoes
as he straightens himself for the day
I have to fight myself to drive away
toward my morning coffee, my sleepy lover
toward poems that may as well write themselves
and I think
how his feet are bigger than my own and he’ll be okay
how his skin becomes browner in the summer and he’ll be okay
how I miss days sprawled all over one another and he’ll be okay
and how we will spend springs and autumns outside and
he’ll
be
okay
I take my coffee creamy and sweet
like the skin of my lover
like the child I birthed
they have seen me strip myself to the bone
use my guts a cloak, as a shield
make a new home for us all
we have learnt to be apart
but I am still not used to the ache in my chest
my body hangs softly for him to land on
in those times that he feels lost
I just hope those kisses grow forests
And he remembers where he is home.
You can read more of Kahu Tumai’s work in Mayhem Magazine, Tupuranga Journal, takahē Magazine and Pantograph Punch. Follow her on @kahu.custard to hear about any upcoming publications or performances.