an Aotearoa poetry journal | ISSN 2744-3248

All Editions

Tarot #07
Tarot #06
Tarot #05
Tarot #04
Tarot #03
Tarot #02
Tarot #01


returning feels like an apology
it is written in the blue, hazy horizon
lines, it is written in cold mornings
on the frost that collects like dust on
the windows, i think i should write more,
but i never do, i have skeletons
here i never disposed of
i worry that there is only pain
and nothing to come of it, i worry
that i am trying to talk of healing while
still shuffling forward on a cliff face
in my dreams, or nightmares
i never learnt the difference, really
i’m fifteen, i’m twenty-three, i’m eleven
tangled in time, webbing on my skin
i am writing apologies to a city
my skeletons still haunt
what is palpable except fear
what is moving on except looking at the sky
and yearning for how it looked elsewhere.