As if God spilt salt
on his midnight tablecloth

as if Gibran’s Ugly
had flung Beauty’s cloak
across the waters –
its soft light muted
in repentence

as if star by blue star
remembered the loss of each mother
and lit her face for a thousand years

as if matariki
leapt off calendar pages
turning in my veins
down through my fingers
bending to pluck
a purple orchid.