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John Puhiatau Puleonline works |
9 As I walked out of the forest one night I saw a young girl quiver like a bird under God’s servant the pastor, his robe was freely given blood transparent in his holy sin, the girl’s eyes sucked in by fireflies, her lips cried into the earth. I let a dove loose from my mouth sat down and watched the stars migrate into her black hair, the pastor gave a final jerk and moved leaves into a final storm. I parted the flax so to see new voices that wept like a river down two seedlings and as if to say goodbye he threw what looked like Jesus into her hand. His shadow, all that was left of the night, crushed the morning sun hiding above his head. The girl examined red ants soaked in blood. I followed her back to Liku past worker eating the garden past mothers calling their children past young men drunk on loku wine and before she entered her house she saw my shadow stop her dreaming and when we ran to each other’s eyes she said, did you see? I gave her the crabs I caught that night, only because I hunt close to your legs, I said, and rather than go home I watched the men fish off the reef.
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