There it's happening
The world blackens and separates into poetry
The helmet of stars above like the undercut of Jeffery's toilet bowl hair, which curves around
his head, how pretty his writing was, the twirled J, looped f's, twisted y, the exact brown of
Now a man has walked all the way down the sidewalk towards us, me and the cat crouching
Is that a little dog? the man says, skirting.
Cat, I say and the man leaves his hands like letters in his pockets
It's so hard to tell if the crickets are singing the same note, vibrato harmonises their songs
into each other, their perfectly invisible bodies, slick as Kit from Knight Rider.
Cricket nights, cider days, too hot to be indoors and the cat shouldn't be out here alone,
remember how he vomited into the napkin the vet held beneath his straining chin saying
poor kid, poor kid and next thing you were imagining her and her sister, two blond girls, like
saplings and a dad by the river with kayaks, and then, flipped it, to my dad, who wears his
Tonganness intentionally now, like moko, on his face, which couldn't help smiling
sometimes, a mound of corned beef in one hand and a raw onion in the other, a salt pile in
the middle for dipping, his memories of food, from childhood, more true than anything
learned since, now my memories of his memories, as distant as the biographies of American
presidents in his roomx, with too many references to get past the first page, next to piles of
He Called them women's magazines, took them away to read secretly, and forgot to put them
The dadness of him and the impossible task of letting it mean less.
Simone Kaho, New Zealand, (b. 1978), is a poet with Tongan ancestry, part of a new generation of Pasifika voices. She was awarded a Masters in Creative Writing from the International Institute of Modern Letters at Victoria University of Wellington in 2011. Anahera Press published her first book of verse, Lucky Punch in August 2016.