Jessie Puru

The time of breathing into clasped hands hovering over a lighter to make a flame not knowing that an angry man threw his eyes into the night the belly of his shattered father weeping rain for separation of earth and sky harvesting bitter grudges from minds like hardened soil packing up the wounds with mud and whiskey and opening doors to wait for those curious to know how sky maps granted our existence how the weight of earth pushed against tongues of oars and our tīpuna pushed back and won.