By Selina Tusitala Marsh

as if God spilt salt
on his midnight tablecloth

as if Gibran’s Ugly
had flung Beauty’s cloak
across the waters –
its soft light muted
in repentance

as if star by blue star
remembered the loss of each mother
and lit her face for a thousand years

as if matariki
leapt off calendar pages
turning in my veins
down through my fingers
bending to pluck
a purple orchid.

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