Mata Mua

In olden times, we'd
dance nearly nude
at the feet of the long-haired
monster god, gaze
deliriously upon,
the golden palms
while our club foot
sister waddled
in the shadows
bleak from the lack
of sexing.

In olden times, we'd
braid our hair in the
shade of the 'aito
like tender shoots
of tamanu, feeling
the dark warmth of
our own young skin
pulse beneathe
our tunics, languor
in the labors of
umu ti.

In olden times, we'd
drift through purple hills
like wild tree snails
leaving a silver trail
of singing on the air,
our hair so soft and
fragrant with the flowers
of the spiral ginger,
our feet wet with
dew like our tongues
are, with tumu ha'ari..