By Larry McMyler
I hold my hands skin-searingly close to a fire of
my father’s making. I am ten, not yet old enough
to drink my warmth like the other men.
I revere this sun, born not of a
lightning strike or a rogue cigarette, but
of a tentative and unflinching hand.
I wonder what life within may be like, to
be kept at an arm’s length and no more—more
importantly to produce no epitaph but stardust.
When I get bored of coveting the black inside of
mauve inside of yellow, I make myself of use by slicing
myself lengthwise then widthwise several times.
I catch the wind, but not on wings, I
smile an apostate’s promise
and vanish when morning comes.
I have occupied this night for seven summers or
more, taken a toothpick to this cardboard box again
and again until there is nothing but daylight left.
Larry McMyler is a film and media student at Te Herenga Waka.