a rope for my third man
by Ila Selwyn
a rope
for my third man
yanks me home
step off the plane
Aotearoa grasps an ankle
my soul down under
we don’t speak the same language
upside down
back to front
I have to up-end myself to see
my grandfather moon
you can’t even see
the cherub in your hemisphere
dump Orion on his head reduce
him to a pot
I seek the sun
south at Tutukaka
drive north to the snows of Ruapehu
the logic is clear
you’re protected by a layer of tough wool
my northern skin is far too thin
emotion fuels my tank
I slam on the brake