Nan
At the funeral
we sang beneath
high-beamed ceilings
in yellow light filtered
through a stained glass jesus.
I whispered to a bent microphone
of fish bones and sick days
of hot cocoa rice and
early morning mutterings of prayer
and of you.
But when I stood above you
eyes cast down
fixed on your cold cheek
I couldn’t bring myself to
touch you.
by Eden Tautali
St Cuthberts College, Auckland
