My ancestors send me screenshots of your group chats dissecting
me with all the science of your founding fathers and the sympathy of
your murdering mothers wanting to know who I am where I’ve been
and who I’ve been with. What the fuck is a whakapapa? Do I carry it
in my pussy? In a tiny baggy? Like a real 1? Like a down-ass bitch?
Do I have a heart? And does it bleed? Like a steak? If it’s brutalised
enough? If it’s served? On a plate? With proper silverware? And
presented to your queen still beating would she care? Would she
believe? Would she collapse into a frothing fit? With the knowledge?
Like a prophet? Like the rhythm of waves smashing up the East
Coast, and see? That all our cousins are locked up for growing
plants on their own whenua. For putting food in the mouths of
children. For being the mouths of children. With no homes, not
even the bones of homes to return to. Instead, souls get trapped in
subdivisions. They mooch around, kick Fletcher cones and let the
air sigh out of tyres. Au ̄e. And wait for the next good day when there
is no distinction between cement and sky. If you lie starfished at the
bottom of this rock, look up and let your eyes go swimming until
you realise that you are also in the clouds looking down like a god
and I see all. I’m an omniscient woman, just like my women, and my
ancestors send me screenshots. And I already know what you think
of me. I’ve known now for centuries.