A Table Set for Two by Hannah Ireland

A Table Set for Two, 2025

A Kite for Every Thought by Hannah Ireland

A Kite for Every Thought, 2026

A Morning Mixed by Sun by Hannah Ireland

A Morning Mixed by Sun, 2025

If I Am the Sky, You Are the Sea by Hannah Ireland

If I Am the Sky, You Are the Sea, 2026

Beyond, Me by Hannah Ireland

Beyond, Me, 2025

Cartwheels Over Window Seals by Hannah Ireland

Cartwheels Over Window Seals, 2026

Under My Breath, Over the Moon by Hannah Ireland

Under My Breath, Over the Moon, 2026

Almost Moving, Almost Still by Hannah Ireland

Almost Moving, Almost Still, 2026

Behind, you by Hannah Ireland

Behind, you, 2026

Loose Ends, Tight Corners by Hannah Ireland

Loose Ends, Tight Corners, 2025

Hide-And-Seek by Hannah Ireland

Hide-And-Seek, 2025

The Second Hand is Turning by Hannah Ireland

The Second Hand is Turning, 2026

My Reflections Grew Legs by Hannah Ireland

My Reflections Grew Legs, 2026

Tightly Squeezed (In) by Hannah Ireland

Tightly Squeezed (In), 2026

A Soft Collapse by Hannah Ireland

A Soft Collapse, 2025

Pockets Full by Hannah Ireland

Pockets Full, 2026

Footsteps on the Concrete, Beneath Me. by Hannah Ireland

Footsteps on the Concrete, Beneath Me., 2025

The Horizon Bent in Half by Hannah Ireland

The Horizon Bent in Half, 2026

Changed Beneath the Evening Light by Hannah Ireland

Changed Beneath the Evening Light, 2025

Face to Face : We All Fall Down by Hannah Ireland

Face to Face : We All Fall Down, 2025

Circling Circles by Hannah Ireland

Circling Circles, 2026

The Sea of Things by Hannah Ireland

The Sea of Things, 2026

small fortunes Ada Duffy

I run without moving

fixated on symmetry. my tattooed tears,

my birthmarks darken in Hineraumati’s breath.

 

I draw ink blue curtains in the lounge

and watch them blend into night,

then recede from the sepia and faded pink

 

before dawn, scratching at my dry wrists

I picture burnt bridges,

their faces tactile in sleep.

/

these afternoons I run

my mouse along the Pacific.

noses of land breach the surface.

 

my eyes bring the contrast of islands seen

to where there is nothing but blue and gridlines.

I superimpose a past on a present.

/

spilt gumboot tea stuck some cardboard

to the bedside table. call it papier mâché.

 

each day that I make a mess I make a mask

for me to wear.

/

harakeke leaves on a path

fallen from the trunk and branches

of a very old rimu at the native reserve.

 

a plant that grows on another plant is called

an epiphyte.

 

epiphytes do not harm their home plant.

/

my love,

do you ever picture a forest in a grey area?

where daisies are three metres tall?

and they climb each other’s shoulders

to see Moko, the rimu, at the crown?

where would you say Moko’s eyes are?

can you see them in the dark?

my love, why do I make faces in everything?

/

I can never know what someone else thinks.

/

walking through a fallen tree, trunk severed

for the path, feels like prying.

caught in thick air, wairua of their body.

 

but lichen has made home here, the light open

without a canopy overhead.

 

they will return the marrow to new soil

sometime that I can’t count.

/

when I lived in a sleepout,

I liked to feel my way in the dark.

/

might I home a way outside,

look up and find the absence where I came from,

 

hyperbole myself into rain

to feel where harakeke rooted onto Moko,

 

then rest my nose in the corner

of my love’s eye.