Journal » Trout 13 » Magic [Hinemoana Baker]
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Hinemoana Baker

He was a magician
the nesting thimbles
would appear on the ends of his fingers

and disappear.
He shows me
the flake of rust in each dimple

he says ivory stinks
like rotting meat when it's carved
that the only difference between

a wedding and a funeral
is you can smell your own flowers.
On the high shelf

the toys –
red velvet feet
a pale blue snout.


My eyesight has changed.
Things blur close-up
as if my eyes

are relaxing without permission.
Outside, something is beeping
and chugging

a vehicle reversing.
The radio says
there was a woman

who found herself
ankle-deep in bank-notes
thinking they were autumn leaves.

I can hear his noises
the voice
he makes to breathe.


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© Copyright 2006 Hinemoana Baker & Trout.