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John Puhiatau Puleonline works |
16 Once again I meet the missionary’s wife, this time in the bush where the peka live in great abundance. I am here to hunt them for the feast tonight; the white woman was invited but has come early to see the preparations. She lifts her dress up to her face and with two fingers plays with her sex which is waiting for rain or a bird to sing. I watch as I have never seen fingers dance, moist, the sea. I kneel down and the lizard that lives in my mouth today is strangely mad, and parts her lips wide till the insides are a river and trees sway at my mouth. She is crying like a henga caught in a sack of wheat, she is on the ground, and I am deep, so deep I hear her voice in my hands. I turn her around to face my village, blow away the leaves on her arse, and watch my penis saturated in forest wine, become hard at the carver’s sweat. She is so hot I am slow, so to avoid the lava that might die too soon. The world does not exist and all I hear is my insides burning, burning, she says. She takes my penis into her bruised lips, I am far away and find an anchor on her hair raining over my hands. I pull away and find the earth, and this time a storm ravages our bodies that fall like lightning. I kiss her awake. What is watching us in the caves flies out with a crab in its beak. She takes the road to Liku. I take the path to Tafata and help the men carry the roast to Liku.
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