Sharing our stories
can be like being lowered
into a hāngi pit,
baskets full with the weight of telling,
mamae glowing like hāngi stones,
earth heaped upon sacks,
until I’m suffocating,
suffocating,
then more earth.
Can’t they see they’re burying me alive?
But hāngi can’t stay in the earth forever
and there comes a point when
the kids are moaning - is it ready yet?
coz they’re hanging out
for their story
to be uncovered and shared.
Then steam announces
the hāngi’s been lifted and
we salivate, chew, swallow, digest,
until the baskets are empty,
the stones have grown cold.
Then we’re full with our stories
and glad we’ve eaten.
Till someone suggests another bloody hāngi.