Father(whenua)

Vilsoni says father whenua has eyes

a silent observer of Google search histories

whenua sips triple shots

while diasporic daughters fumble

fried taro with their chopsticks

Voivoi

weaves protest and joy into the same ‘afa

museum curators cannot tell the difference but

look

at the geometry

look at the pretty patterns dyed strands make when you play with them

smooth to foreign fingertips

Look at the way colonizers hold ‘afa to their hip

               Like it’s loaded

               Held their hands up to faces

                              And said

                              This is not blood

                              This is just your ink

Bleeding back at you

Somo strips

don’t really shine in the sunlight but

our skin does

clay cracks in solidarity

Hineahuone, carved from the clay of tāne at kurawaka

calls out pepe

hanisi

your indigeneity is a call to everything that is beautiful is this world

so when the waves break on you

trust the only reason is because they are so used to rolling on the defense

these days

they may not recognise your body

apei mats don’t really make a sound behind military perspex

so crack perspex with te la ‘oe ‘eap

lay the apei out in the sun and watch how it

releases the longest held exhale of its life

watch it wrap moana mana in its fists

and wrap voivoi around your spine

so you stand taller

iri poised in one hand

tip your fa’paurou to your indigenous brother

Vilsoni says father whenua has eyes

but what use are eyes when the media calls whenua undisputed

neglects the genocide

the land lost

what use are eyes when they are not open

what use are eyes if they are not in solidarity

without mouths to call to action

Look at the way colonizers hold ‘afa to their hip

               Like it’s loaded

               Held their hands up to our faces

                              And said

                              This is not blood

                              This is just your ink

bleeding back at you

so we hold tefui to the warmth of our clavicle

beautiful are the bodies who remember where they came from

and powerful is the body that lets others know too

Ruby Macomber is a poet, essayist and facilitator of Te Moana-Nui-a Kiwa. She has been published in Pantograph Punch, Landfall, Metro, Awa Wāhine, Kete Books and Starling. She is currently obsessed with fry bread, pink V and Te Henga.