XXIII.
the extreme poverty of Moerewa
a poverty that not poverty
contrasts with a smell
not te ika the eel tuna not that
neither a full range of offals
and associated products
including foetal blood not the smell of
the freezing works
the fronted up houses the shops boarded
nor the café boarded where stones on every table
fresh smoked eel we said taking pride of place
taking pride in place the whenua
whenua
a poverty at the roots of the hills
haunting porcelain animals
on windowsills
in the lightning trees
at the tips of each darkness
nodding recognition
my grandfather built my grandmother
nana
a similar house
rich for being stucco
in another works’ town
Konini
Konini Street from folded blueprints
he proudly kept
rich for having a porch
deep enough sunlight
never penetrated no
not that smell of rosewater oil of Ulan
that overtakes me now of ripening fruit
in the laundry loo and pile of mags
I’d sometimes find a porn one
overripe in the pale green tongue and groove
the meatworks where he
call him boompa not poppa
rode to every morning
on the fixed gear black bike
for sixty years
and sweet smell fruit rotting in the grass
the Bay so fertile call it the fruitbowl of a nation
so fertile it rotted
what nation
he dreamed of travelling to the Rhine one day
and on the aeroplane sedated and confused
the drugs for Parkinson’s Lorelei
he left his seat in his socks
and shoes behind padding down the aisle
to the door and with intent and pride intact
he turned the handle opening the hatch
to walk outside
no what smell but health and hygiene
a compression of hedges
Kerikeri
with no outside.
